You and I

When I was young, I knew no grief I could not bear.
I wanted to have a feeling, so I wrote something.
All the sorrows in my words were merely moans and groans of imaginary illness.

I know what grief is now that I have aged.
I have feelings, tons of them,
However,
I lost my ability to convey them.
Pondering.
Dithering.
Hesitating.
The page remains blank.
Short talk on ghosts

I heard many ghost stories when I was young and I sincerely believed in them.
I never turned off the lights in my bedroom at night.
I always suspected there was something horrifying hidden in the darkness
ready to grab me and drag me into the abyss.

I forget when I started to yearn for the night to draw in,
so those who have become ghosts could stop by.

But they don’t.
No one paid a visit except insomnia.

Stupid me.
Describe the city you live in 

It is almost midnight.
Ian sits in front of his desk and works on a paper about time series and stochastic calculus.
He stretches and yawns, then stares at his own reflection in the window glass.
His image blends with the night scenery of the metropolis.

The sky is much clearer than usual because it rained earlier during the day.
Ian can still sense the remaining rainwater in the air.

Right across the street from Ian’s apartment, there is a renowned law firm on the top floors. It is Thursday, so many people are still working in the offices. The night is ablaze with the lights, so it does not look like it is almost 12 o’clock.

Ian finds himself trapped here, in a city where he cannot tell the difference between day and night.
He sighs, rubs his eyes and continues to write his paper.
A notification pops on his screen,
“Happy birthday,” from Facebook.
He clicks on the small bubble and begins to scroll down his home page.

Many people from college are talking about the gas attack in Syria.
A photograph of a father holding the dead bodies of his twins.
He stares at the picture dully for how long he does not know.
Then he closes the page.

Ian takes another look at the night,
at the city that never sleeps,
at those busy people in the small cubes,
at himself.

What’s meaning of all these lives?
The world is still a crazy mess.

His phone buzzes and interrupts his train of thoughts.


- Fin -
Finding Words
0
26
0
Published:

Finding Words

0
26
0
Published:

Creative Fields