The Holidays Became Ordinary, Compared to Holding Hands with Him

On the views of love, from a Chinese blog I subscribe to, translated…

The Confessions of a Man: “Christmases, New Years, Valentine’s Day, as well as anniversaries are all very important.  Because you’d deemed it so, that, is why, it’s so.

The phone rang, it was, your friend.

Friend: “How are you spending the holidays with your other half?”

You: “Just going out to dine, nothing special, really, we don’t really celebrate the holidays.”

Friend: “That’s too bad.”

You: “Yeah, I know.”

Friend, “That’s AWFUL!  Don’t you guys get one another presents?  I feel so sorry for you I’m about to cry now, he’s so unromantic!”

You: “It’s true, I’m so unlucky to be with him!”

Hanging up the phones, you’d turned back, and started, leaning on him once more.

You were young once, and believed that love MUST go all out, in order for it to be called love.  And whenever you’d had fights, you’d called on your buddies, and headed out with them, to get drunk, cussing out the job, your boss, as well as all those god DAMN men too.  As well as those who couldn’t seem, to find love.  People are complicated, love, hard, only booze, is the simplest.  You’d met a lot of people, but, after you woke the next morn, you can’t recall a single one.  Left with those blood-filled eyes in the mirrors, reminding you of how awful you’d had it, then, you’d started hating yourself for it.

You’d had those weekends that going without clubbing on Saturday nights wouldn’t be called weekends for you, and you must dance and drink, until the shop closes down, felt, that you’re always, short of time, you’d still have, a TON of energies to set loose.  You’re unafraid of the digits on the tabs, only feared, that you’d not made your minutes and seconds meaningful enough.  But every time you’d stepped out, from the dimly lit basement, into the sun, your eyes turned blind, by the rays of the rising sun, like how a vampire is exposed, underneath the sun.  Then, you’re overwhelmed, with that sense of self-pity.

You’d found a hiding place in the night, but one day, you don’t even recognize your own reflection in the mirror.

Surely, you’d received, gifts such as flowers, name brand purses too, almost as the same as the number he’d broken your heart.  Ever since, you’d come to the realizations, that the number of zeros is equivalent, to the number of heartbreaks you got from him.  You’d also learned, that the expiry dates of a heart that’s true is way longer than the withering roses, and that those name brand purses become outdated, quicker than the love.

Then, you’d met him.  He’s not extremely handsome, not rich either, only has a 100cc motorcycle.  He’d paled by comparison, to the men you’d dated from before.  But, you were, willing to give him a chance.  You wanted to treat him with your true heart, instead of a temporary playmate.  And so, you’d put up your inability to commit, because it took you a very long time, to finally realize, that you can’t compare one man to the next.  Love can’t be compared and measured either.  You no longer wondered, if he wasn’t good enough, or, if he was worse than an ex, because love’s got nothing to do with how “good” he is, and more to do with how kindly he treated you.

After a very long time, you’d come to your senses, that it wasn’t you who chose him, instead, it was, him, who pulled you out from the darkness you were in.  

He’d still missed Valentine’s Day, and, not remembering whether your anniversary was on the eleventh, or the thirteenth, but knew that you liked dogs more than cats, the oceans, more than the mountains, and wanted to go honeymooning in Norway.  Only liked the spicy oils, not the chili, had a poodle named “Boo-Boo”.  Then, when he saw Teddy bears, he’d always put them in bags, and give them all to you.  Even though he’s really bad at wrapping, but, you’d known, that every time you’d opened something from him, his true heart was in the packages.  The gifts can be bought, but not the passions he has for you.

Then, for the very first time, you’d found, that spending the holidays pale by comparison, to him, holding your hands.

Ever since, you’d not feared the morning light, started waking up, in the expectations of the sun, instead of waking up in fear.  You no longer wanted to go back.  Now, every time you got closer to him, you’d feel that you’re closer, to happiness.  And, all the neon on the outside, no longer can compare, to the small screen, sitting, RIGHT there, at home.  You knew, that happiness, is in the hand that held yours.  You’d started feeling, that time’s running out, instead, of counting down the days, because you’d always had too much to share with him, and, couldn’t get enough of him.

Like how you’d come to understand, that your love needed no shiny crowns, because you two have each other now.

And so, this, is a story, from losing in love, to realizing what love is, from changing one’s beliefs about love, to finally realizing, that what one has, IS the real kind of love, and this woman was lucky enough, to have found this depth of love from a good man.







Hung Up on What Mr. Right Did Her Wrong

Hung up on what Mr. Right did her wrong, she’d carried all those negative feelings with her, for so long, and, she’s still, having troubles, figuring the how and the WHY of Mr. Right, doing her wrong!

Hung up on what Mr. Right did her wrong, but, it can’t be, he was, her Mr. Right, and, so, how can, her Mr. Right DO her wrong?  It’s just, not normal, is it?  And so, she’d gotten, STUCK, in that vicious cycle of her own thoughts.

Hung up on what Mr. Right did her wrong, there’s NO way of finding the closure over this lost love now, as Mr. Right had already LEFT the building (kinda like how Elvis had too???), but, she’s still, searching, to find, the reasons, when the truth of the matter is, that he was, Mr. WRONG, all along!

The Light in an Instant



This particular dusk, I’d gone out for a stroll, caught the beautiful skies.

It’s a kind of blue that’s noted by Monet, the kind of ultraviolet color, that in his final years, when Monet had surgery for his cataracts, the ultraviolet color, that none of us would see ordinarily, the kind of color, in his lilies.

The Monet blue, right this moment, entered into my vision, it’s the final light from the dusk, this sort of blue, belonging not to earth, is said, to enter, into the depth of the human heart.

I’d stopped, lifted my face faithfully, took in the entire sky, placed it, into my heart.  After a short while, this dying light will get covered, by the depth of the night.  And, this sort of light in an instant, is close to a sort of revelation.  There are those around me, going to and from, but, none had, lifted up their heads, to gaze up at the skies, because they were all, kept, by that small window in their palms, and, failed to notice, the gigantic blue window up above.  In this particular instant, it’s, as if, I’d seen some secretively guide, like a secret, just for me.

At this moment in time, the endless moments came up one by one, and, died, one by one too.

And, it is, also, at this particular moment, I’d recalled, that for a very long time, when I was younger, I’d once not been able to, walk, in the dimming lights of the skies, because I feared, seeing the light, getting lost, feared entering into the darkness of night.  When that sort of a light entered, straight into my heart’s depth, I’d felt that I couldn’t take it.  So, I’d always, kept indoors, at dusks, and, pulled up my heavy drapes, pretended, that the world outside didn’t exist at all.

Later on, someone told me, that it’s a “Dusk Depression”, a strong sense of loss that comes with the day, ending.

But at this moment, I’d stared alone, at that Monet blue sky, and, soaked up, in the serenity and the beauty of its boundlessness, filled with joy and blessings.  So, how come my mind set is so different now?

Perhaps, it wasn’t the depressive state of mind back  then, but how I didn’t want to let go of the disappearing beauty, so, I’d much rather not see it at all, because without having it, I don’t have to lose it.  And still, after life had happened, the good, and the bad, the joys, the sorrows, I’d come to understand, that life, is ever changing, like that light that lasted only but an instant in the skies.

Life is made up of endless instances, it’s a connection of moments after moments, don’t know when, I’d learned, to let go of all those moments past, no longer missed them, no longer recalled too, no longer feared losing, so not daring to hold, nor did I feel that strong sense of loss, from not keeping something constant.  And so now, I not only can walk comfortably underneath that dusk, and I can also, enjoy the views from the dying light of day, perhaps, that means, that my fear of the unknown, had been, healed somehow.

At the end of day, at this particular moment, I’d, caught a gaze, of this instant dying light, like in the long-winding life, brushing past all, and, being able to, stop, and turn around, to look at someone.  Although, every moment is on the way of getting lost, and is being lost, but I know, that so long as I was willing, to let it all go, this moment, I’d found, my freedom.

And so, this, is someone’s growth, from not being able to accept, to look, at the moments that are gone too fast from her, to finally, being able to, enjoy the moments as they’d presented themselves to her, and, only through the maturation of thought, of mind, of the psyche, can this be achieved.

A Rare Visitor, a Poem


A pouring rain

Drenched the poet, Su, caused him to run scattered

My studies

I’d made a pot of tea

With Taiwanese jasmine for him

He said, give me a glass of herbal tea

To cool me down

I’d put on a Chinese opera for him

He’d said, I want to see the Taiwanese operas instead

Going with the flows

I’d recited his poem that he was well-known for back to him, he said

Why don’t you recite something from your own time

To match up to the times

How many times do I need to get talked down for

I’d asked him, he’d quickly told me

Oh! No

It’s a self-help journey

And so, this, is how the ancients interacted with the modern, you’d expected that someone from so very long ago, to be more into her/his own era, but, in her imagination, the poet had made this ancient poet more modern, to connect better with her readers.


Memories of the childhood years, translated…

As a child, I’d loved to gaze into kaleidoscopes, I’d once made a simpler version of it, a triangular mirror, a cylinder, and colorful scraps of paper, turning it slowly, shake it up, then, there would be, various beautiful, congruent pictures, that looked like flowers.  Of course, back then, I had no idea, that this simple handmade toy, included in it, the concept of light, along with other physics properties.

I’d found out about the physics of the kaleidoscope in my college years, turns out, that the kaleidoscope was invented by the Scottish physicist, Dr. Brewster, for his research of light, which was noted by the history of the sciences.  Other than being shocked at finding that out, it’d taken me back to my childhood years.  This small toy from the nineteenth century, after the century’s innovations, was still a favorite to many, I’d once taught my younger cousin how to play with it, she’d taken her favorite colorful beads, pressed it beneath the triangular mirrors, turned it, and started exclaiming.  I’d asked her what she saw, and, she’d always told me something different each and every single time.

Don’t know why, seeing my younger cousin’s reaction, I’d felt muffled inside, I’d searched for the information on the kaleidoscopes, and found something interesting: based off of experimentations, after the pictures were altered, you will need to turn the kaleidoscopes for several centuries, to get the exact same combination again!  And so, every single instant, is worth our fully, undivided attention, and every second, cherished.

As I’d worked away from home , I’d looked for a place to live, and found a place on the sixteenth floor, facing the harbors, there was, a huge set of windows, and, looking out from my window, I could see, never-ending skies.  Every minute of every single day, I’d only needed, to lift my head, and, I’d see the pictures made possible by the clouds, the seagulls, and the morning light.  This window became like a life-size kaleidoscope, and, the images never repeat themselves.

When we were younger, we were, attracted to and focused on the beauties before our eyes, as we grow, we’d understand, that this world, is filled with endless beauties for us, to discover!

See how the childhood years CAN affect someone’s later years?  And, this person’s intrigue about kaleidoscopes had allowed her to keep that innocence of a child about her, and she’s able to see things, that the adults couldn’t and failed to pay attention to normally.

May the Years Keep You Well

The ins and outs of life here, translated…

My mom would head back to my grandparents’ house almost daily now, to take care of my elderly and immobilized grandfather.  Seeing my mother, who’s in her seventies, busying herself in and out, I’d reminded of the lyrics from the song, “Father”, “I would trade everything I have, for you, to live on forever”, the line was so simplistic, and yet, it’d told of the depth of the emotions of the children for the parents.

My grandfather who lived alone on his own most of the time, even if he’d felt lonely, he’d not told his young about it, oftentimes, he’d just, waited, in the silence.  This time, as I’d gone home to visit him, he’d asked me when his granddaughter is having her winter vacation, then, mumbled to himself, “She doesn’t call me when she has the time, at least, I could get to hear her voice.”, and, I’d felt that souring sensation, rising up in my heart.  He probably directed the line toward me too, I suppose.

It’s hard to imagine, that my originally quiet and authoritarian father, can say words of care and concerns.  I knew, that in his mind, I’m still a kid who’s still quite young, he’d still worried about me constantly.  I’d taken his warm hand in mine, and, I’d felt, just as my mother did, “I’d trade all of my years, for your good health.”

So, as we were younger, we don’t appreciate the sentiments of care and concerns from our own parents, until our parents became aged, and, we’d started, thinking back, to the time when we could’ve paid them more attention.

Photos of Grandma, a Treasure Map of Memories

Memories worth savoring, translated…

Grandpa had a thought, so, he’d tiptoed and moved the tripod camera into the room, convinced grandma, to take what was considered too illicit photos of their times…

Rummaging Through the Closets to Find the Photos

As I’d gone home to visit my parents, I was told, that the owner of the photo shop from diagonally to us had passed, and now, the property became a hair salon, the daughter and granddaughter of the studio who are single mothers now run the place.  The granddaughter was a classmate from my elementary school years, and so, I’d gone to get my hair done, also, to catch up with her.

My classmate told me, that her grandfather, when he was ninety-three years old, passed away peacefully in his sleep.  After her grandpa died, grandma, who was originally able-bodied and lucid became confused and would drift in and out of her clarity state of mind, from time to time, she’d fallen silent, and, at other, she’d started ranting nonsense.  The doctor told the families to carry on in conversations with her more often, to accompany her more, otherwise, she would be overcome with dementia and Alzheimer’s disease.

Once, grandma was rummaging through the house, she’d started sorting through the photos grandpa took one by one, and, finally, she’d found the one she was looking for, and, it was like she’d found a treasure, held it close to her heart.

At first, the daughter, the granddaughter and the great granddaughter all fought to take a look at that photograph, grandma felt shy and wouldn’t let them see, but in the end, the three of them had overcome her, and so, she’d shown it to them.  Grandma told them, that when grandpa died, she couldn’t find it, to burn it to him, hoped, that when she passed, they will burn it to her in the future.

As my classmate continued, she’d turned around, told her grandmother, to take out that photograph to show me.  Without much thought, grandma got up, turned around, walked towards her bedroom, but, she’d said, shyly, “I’ll be embarrassed!”

My classmate said, “What for?  You’d wanted to show it to everybody, and you were so beautiful!  So hot too!  Quick, bring it, so my classmate could see it!”

The Sweetest Memories, Kept Forever

The photograph was black and white, and yellowed, with the years, with a damaged corner, the man was bareback, with a pair of boxers, without the musculature, but with that hint of literariness about him; the woman had on a buttoned down, wire-free bra, with what is known now as “grandma panties” now, without the cleavage, without the lace, but, you can tell, that she’s a beauty too.  The man’s arm wrapped around the woman’s shoulder, the woman’s arm, around his waist, they were completely, basked in the bliss of the atmosphere.

Grandma told us, she was not yet thirty years of age then, and it was, right after grandpa had taken over the photo studios, one evening, after they were done, with some business in their bedrooms, grandpa came up with a thought, he’d tiptoed and moved the tripod of the camera into their bedroom, convinced grandma, to take what’s considered as “tabooed” sex photograph.  As the photo was developed from the dark room, grandpa showed it to her, couldn’t hide his own joy, other than feeling shy about it, they’d also agreed, that the photo is to be hidden, and not get found by the in-laws, or other members of their families, so they won’t be called breaking the rules.  The first few years after the picture was taken whenever they’d had a fight, grandpa would take out the photograph, convinced herself, that grandpa loves her so much, and so, she’d found her peace, and they could get along with each other again, later on, as the time came to pass, she’d forgotten about the photo.

I’d taken the photo from her, looked at grandma, it became hard for me to imagine, that the woman in her nineties before me, was that sexual woman in smiles, in the black and white photograph.  As if the woman was frozen in time in the picture, but at this moment in time, the spell was broken, and she’d aged instantly, and, the sixty years of life flashed right by her side, her youth, her man, even her life, had all, been taken away from her.

My classmate told me, that recently, her grandmother’s eyes became more lackluster by the day, and she’d started losing focus, and, only when she’d taken out that photograph and looked at it, would she have that glow about her.

I think, at the moment she saw herself in that photograph, it’d taken her back, to that beautiful evening, when she was accompanied by grandpa, multiple decades ago.

And so, this, is how those memories are for the elderly, and, because as you’d become older and older, youth IS lost, and, all you will have in the very end would be nothing BUT those memories of your younger days, which will never BE returned, and the pictures of your youth, in that freeze-frame photograph.