When things don’t go as planned when people piss me off when you cry driving home after work while listening to Tanya Chua’s ballads.
I think of driving home to you. Nothing. Nothing else matters.
4 more years.
Hang in there.
And then it will just be the two of us.
Thank you for making every breath a song.
Recognizing, that I have to, let myself live.
A hopeful life will come.
“Sail forth!
Steer for the deep waters only!
Reckless O soul, exploring. I with thee and thou with me.
For we are bound where mariner has not yet dared to go.
And we will risk the ship, ourselves, and all”
—Walt Whitman
“This is love: to fly towards a secret sky, to cause a hundred veils to fall each moment.
First to let go of life. Finally, to take a step without feet.”–rumi
Thank you all for remembering my birthday I read every word with a winged heart and I’m grateful for all the love showered upon me on this day and everyday that follows.
At the end of the day the fact that we have the courage to stilll be standing is reason enough to celebrate, no?
In P.Coelho’s words: I wish you enough.
Enough sun rain happiness pain gain loss and enough hellos to get you through the final goodbye.
望んでいたのは 大げさなことじゃなく
ここにいてもいいよって言葉だけ
星屑みたいな私を覚えてて
大丈夫
次の出会いならすぐそこに。。。
Comme une danse. Dans une ville où j’attends revenir.
You can tell by now, that I obviously miss Paris a lot.
You like to ask me how am I coping so far, after-all a year has already gone by and I should have settled into an old familiar rhythm by now.
Isn’t it?
No. Not really.
My heart aches for Tokyo. It is often too painful to talk about Tokyo. And that is why I prefer to sing about Paris. Then I don’t spiral into the abyss of melancholic yearning.
Paris is a love story, a romantic-comedy.
Tokyo on the other hand, is a good old Kurosawa film noir. .
Never let me go.
Where I used to wake up, grab a melon-bun and a cuppa coffee and ran to class every morning.
Where I got lost in my thoughts on the streets of Takadanobaba trying not to bump into fellow cyclists or worse, old ladies with bags of groceries.
Where I was small but I occupied the city with a soul that soared, wholehearted I loved and I breathed.
When I close my eyes in bed every single night, I think about my Tokyo this way, while I bid goodnight to this almost-perfect life here in Singapore.
I miss not knowing what is going to happen next.
I miss the walks in the park in the crowded streets of Shibuya in the quiet back streets of Jiyugaoka.
I miss being vulnerable.
I miss me, when I was in another city.
I flew back to Paris. I dived back in time.
All that was needed to be done, and then there was more.
You reflected that I had gotten better. It was not all that bad, no?
No it was not. Nothing was all that traumatic.
Bidding farewell. Losing. Falling. Hurting.
I close my eyes. I don’t think. I drift.
If someone searches for me, I am still here.
The part of me that stays true, at least.
God?
Please, let me go.
I am prisoner number 1079000.
Sinon, permettez-moi d’aller au paradis.
Parce que la personne que je suis ici, je n’aime pas du tout.
“…bien sûr si tu meurs, je serai très triste, mais je sais que Dieu, il t’emmenera à un endroit beaucoup plus tranquille…”
—–Mum.
Oh ma mère, tu m’as émue.
花葉兩不相見 ，生生相錯
情不為因果
緣注定生死
。。。
