And, for What?

From an online blog in Chinese I’m a subscriber to, translated by me…

Why are you, still, inside this confined space?  Or maybe, you’re still, afraid, feeling lost?  You feared, that if you leave the comfortable place you’re currently in, you will, get be completely, defeated, by reality, and that, if, you’d, moved along too fast, you may, forget, who you were when you’d started from before.

Feared, that if you’d left the you that everybody is familiar with

Nobody will have your back, people you know would, desert you.

And, as life goes on, more and more of these questions had, hounded down on you, they’d, masked up your hesitations, urged you onward.  So, you’d, moved, slowly onward, but, backed away, as a decision comes before you.

Who are you?

And why, are you, alive?

This is, an existentialism crisis, that this individual is experiencing, s/he is starting to, question everything that s/he comes into contact with, and, feels confused, about the purpose of life, and, there’s, NO other option (or so this person had been led to believe!), but to, keep moving onward, and, this person doesn’t realize, that it’s okay, to NOT have all the answers in one’s life, that somehow (don’t ask me how, but I just know it!!!), that things will all work out, the way it’s, supposed to………



Writing, for the Purpose, of NOBODY Else…

I have always been a writer; to myself. Hundreds of magazines, blogs, newspapers and publishing houses have turned down my writing. I was mad, even depressed. I’d go through stages of self hatred, thinking I would never be good enough and my writing was shit; I’d never get any better. You want to know why […]

via Why? — Paper Plane Pilots

A Lone Bird, Taking Flight

From being burned OUT!  Translated…

After the noises, I knew, I will never, return, to those days of quiet, of serenity again, every day, I’d, watched that sky that’s, constantly changing colors, the thunder that, came from, nowhere, the flood that started, out of nowhere, how, do I, get back to the days of the past, when I could, feel at ease and just, study?  How do I, go back to the days, when this trail wasn’t, so well traveled?  Right now, my mind felt, like that old shirt that’s been washed and rewashed, over, and over again, no matter how I’d bleached, there are still, age marks, spots, with the memories of the injuries I’d, sustained in life.

A bird returning to the nest flew by the skies, where, is it, returning to?  Where, can it find a nest so settled and stable?  Can’t remember, how many times the feathers changed, with that expectation, of a, brand new life, living among others, but too shamed, to fight for the food, and the only dignity it had remained, in flying solo amongst the buildings.  If name is a symbol of glory, then, distribution becomes, the biggest sort of insult.  That sort of an awful looks from fighting over the food, don’t know how many fell ill by seeing it every single day.  Just like that bird that cut across the skies, allowing, that shade, to vanish, into the distances.

And, in the depth of the night, came the sounds of flute playing, who is it, that played that song of sorrow of the eras?  Is the person, hiding that scent of sorrow in the notes, passing, to someone who can understand, or, like a nightingale, singing its songs of the night?  The notes seemed to have that ancientness to it, man’s pursuits of thousands of years, will NEVER measure up to the purities of the world, and, how can you, mutilate yourself so?  No longer, flipping at the calendars, no longer, seeking out that longitude/latitude on the maps, where to station oneself, it wouldn’t, make a difference.  Sneaking a peek, at others, everything is, so clear now.

exactly what that felt like…not my photograph…

Some sang high, those who followed along, gathered, only that lone bird, continued, flying, all on its own, it doesn’t call on its kind, so, it can only, flight for the reducing amounts of foods, that branch it’d stood on for day already, rotted out, and can no longer, withstand the weights of all the birds.  It’d, flew onward alone, left ALL the noises from the others behind, continued in flight, and, flying on, and on, and on, even as the moon dimmed out, depending on just the dying light of the stars.  It’d, kept, flying onward, become, this small, black dot in the universe.

So, this, is how the writer feels, getting lost in the daily grind, there’s, that sense of burnout, that sense of I don’t know what I’m doing here, that sense, of feeling tired, fatigued, of the same old routines, day in, and day out, and just like that bird, the narrator will, keep treading on in her/his own life, because that, is what we all do, we, carry on, with our lives!

The Music from Onstage

Finding people who shared the same love of music like you, and playing with them, making wonderful music, those, are the moments, you’d, miss the most, translated…

Although, I’d, matured into an okay adult, and managed, to gain some real-world experiences, but every time when someone asked me of my dreams, I’d become, silenced, “What, is it?”, in this world, maybe, without dreams had become, a sort of an ordinariness, because that means, that the individuals are, without goals, or directions to their lives, a man who doesn’t know which way to turn, can be called, “lost”.

just, sharing their love for music, jamming together, photo from online…

And so, I’d always, come up with a dream, and, as I’d told others about it, it seemed, to have, become, real.  I’d dreamed, of performing in the national concert hall, playing the songs that I loved, because I’d once, been intoxicated, taken in, by the moments on stage from before.  As a student, because of my nature as a gambler, the refusal to get defeated, it’d made me from not being able to play an instrument, to entering into competition, earning a placement in the national contests.  Thinking back of this, don’t know how, I’d, managed, to gamble on this passion of mine, it’d always, caused me to repeat a grade level.

That, was the very first time our school had competed in the national competitions.  First, we’d defeated the winner in the regionals, moving our places forward.  This competitor, was our best friend, we’d, practiced during the summers together, but, in the competitions, there IS a winner, and, the cruelties of this competition had, tested our friendships.  On that day, it was my birthday, as I tasted the fruits of victory, I’d still needed to, pay attention to my friends’ tears as well as their emotions too, and, they were very good losers, helping us move our instruments off stage too, and, we were only able to, taste this bitter, and soured success on our own.

My friend, my competition handed me a birthday card, I’d, written back to him, courteously and honestly, “I hope, that this competition won’t ruin what we had, we can still be good friends.”  A few days later, I’d received a letter back from him, he told me, “As I read your letter, I was, eating an apple, and, I’d, tasted that sourness mixed into the sweetness like you were experiencing too.”, another friend wrote, “Hearing you talk, it’s, beat-by-beat, matching to each other’s tempos, you all must worked really hard to perfect your skills, we’re, glad, you were, winners!”

Before we’d tasted that mixture of joy and ambiguity of being in the finals, we’d faced, that pressure onstage soon enough.  The night before the competition, we were still, rehearsing in the auditorium, surprisingly, nobody spoke a single word, every one of us only, stared down at our instruments, and, played our separate parts; and, don’t know which measure it was, when the huqin came in, very harmoniously.  I’d felt, that the lower parts were in-synch, then came, the woodwinds, finally, the percussion strings came in, then, those percussionists who were cleaning up their instruments, also, joined in too.  The teacher who were chit-chatting offstage were all shocked, looking at how our headless band was, playing something hard, and in the end, every one of us, cried.

That night on stage, I’d clearly, felt the vibrations from the string player next to me, the vibration from his instrument had, shocked me, that my instrument played with his too—I started to believe, that music, can be felt, naturally, that the human hearts were, calling out to each other too.  But after that, I’d never met anybody, who was, in-synch whom, I’d, played so well with again.  In college, after the camps finished the activities, I’d started wailing aloud outside, perhaps, I’d, discovered, that I will NEVER, find the wonders of that very night back again, that I will never find another, whose hearts, resonated, in accordance to mine so perfectly.

just a group of friends, playing music together, photo from online…

During that part of my life when I took up music, to now, thinking back, I’d still, get intoxicated in the moments, felt phased, by that music.  I’d always thought, that we are now, humming our own separate songs in the city’s streets, playing our own tunes now.  We all have musical instruments inside each one of us, and, a stage to perform on, is everywhere in sight.

This, would be the depth of the writer’s friendship with her fellow musicians, and, it is, very difficult, to find a group of people who shared your similar values, your similar interests, that you can, run with, and, this writer was lucky enough, to find the opportunities in her younger years, to find such a group of wonderful friends to share their joys of making the music together.









These Leftover Dreams…

These, leftover dreams, they’d, no longer tasted fresh, and yet, we’re still, keeping them, why?

These, leftover dreams, from god KNOWS how long ago, look at all those age spots, all those wrinkles on them?  Why are we, bothering, keeping up with them, huh?  They’re, so outdated, and useless now!

like these???  not my photograph.

These, leftover dreams, like those takeout boxes you have from your leftovers at the restaurants, you take them home, stick it into the fridge and, forget about their existences, until one day, as you, rummage through the fridge, came that STENCH, then, you start, digging into the DEPTH of those slots inside the fridge, and find it…………

These, leftover dreams, we should probably just, throw them out, they’re, NOT fresh anymore, I mean, we can, always, make them up again, can’t we?  After all, they all came out of, our minds, didn’t they?  And, so long as our minds are still, functional, then, making more of them dreams should be, a cinch, isn’t that right???

So, just, throw these, leftover dreams away, they’re, taking up too much space, cramping MY style (as I KNOW I HATE clutters!!!), and, there’s just, NO more extra room here, for them, and, I refuse, to take out a storage unit for all of their sakes!  (Costs money, energy to maintain the storage, etc., etc., etc., etc., you know how the drill goes!)

like leftover foods, it all, goes into the TRASH!!!  Not my photo still…

In an Instant, a Poem


Plant a Single Rose on the Horizon

The Rising Sun Watered It

a rose, in the early mornings, in someone’s garden, photo from online…

Drop, by Drop

Dripped, onto that Laughing Poetic Eye of the Rose’s

Mmmmmmmm!  The Rain Became a Downpour from the Skies

cleansed by the rain here, like that, easactly, NOT my photograph…

Coloring that Falsified Look of the Years

So, everything is NOT what it seemed as, and, that’s just how “constant” things are in the world, the poet described this so very well, don’t you think???

Out of Time — Max Meunier

shards of sanity scattered intermittently across the glass-like surface shades of unfamiliarity fade into permanence the strangest of our thoughts condemned to feeling only the past remains unchanged perhaps it is inconsequential as words are as they ever were stinging our jaded eyes with the distortions of our dreams forever dangling out of reach and […]

via Out of Time — Max Meunier