Category Archives: Writings

esquisse

P., août
Rues désertes.
Meubles débarrassées.
Touristes égarés.
Fleurs fanées.
Pigeons écrasés.
Ciel fâché.
Flâneuse coincée.

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neverland

This is the kind of song that you listen to on a summer night when you feel lonely and the road is yours. You see some stranger’s silhouette that you mistake for somebody you knew. The warm yellow light from the street lamps and the windows is in a perfect contrast with the twilight sky. The moon is a faint spot of light brushed away by a thin veil of cloud. The sun lingers on top of the canopy whose thick and dark shape forms a rampart surrounding the sunflower field, above which the sky opens up like a canvas painted in an oneiric blue, the shade of blue that you’ve only seen in Magritte’s world. You chase the night. You keep going until it absorbs you and you can’t find the way back. Time stands still as the bicycle’s wheels turn around, and time is infinite. For a second, you wish that you were truly alone in this world. That there was no one to miss, that you were one and whole in the uniqueness of your existence, like a prime number.

This is happiness. I could very live like this until the rest of my life, but I’d probably die out of boredom and frustration. Which makes it a happiness. It’s not meant to last. I only love this place because it’s not mine forever, and so it’s mine, in this present moment. Once I realize that, I feel liberated from the burden of anticipated nostalgia. Everything that I’m experiencing right now is precious. That dead trunk on the roadside. Those insects that hit my forehead, my glasses and my mouth (giving me violent kisses). The summer air that smells of smoke, animal’s excrements and fresh leaves. This timeless town untouched by the outside world. It will cease to exist as soon as I step on the train that will take me away from it forever. It will hibernate in a corner of my memory.

I’ve found where I belong in this world. I’ve always known the answer, but never quite understood it. Now I do. In my dreams, there’s only one place that I belong to, but it doesn’t have a name, nor a shape. It takes on different shapes in real life, and so I have to constantly move between places. Because dreams can be eternal in their own territory, but will vanish when hit by reality. I only belong to somewhere as long as it remains my dreamland. As long as it doesn’t last. As long as I don’t belong to it.

I listened to that song on a summer night back many years ago, back in my hometown. I listen to it now, and it instantly brings me back to that night. Or rather, it brings that night here. The past and the present fuse together. I time travel. I am one. I am whole. I am here. I am alive. I am infinitely mine.

breathe

hơi thở

I want to take your hand and gently place your palm on my cheek
to let my whole being enclosed in the shelter of your presence
then timidly I shall clasp your fingers
but fear no force, for tenderness is my only strength
like spring petals caught in a wanderer’s hair
you wouldn’t even notice.

I shall steal a breath from your skin
then fill the space between your fingers with mine
for a breath is the only tangible trace
that I could keep of you in this physical world
where you will never be mine, but it’s alright
because the air you give
makes me stay alive.

a walk in the swamp

IMG_3946

an autumn afternoon’s fading warmth
an ephemeral glow on the swamp
the geese sing melancholic notes
flapping their wings along the river
shining golden canebrake.

From Het Bossche Broek, ’s-Hertogenbosch, March ‘17. Photo and translation by me.

  • swamp [ENG] ; broek [NL] : an area of low-lying, waterlogged, uncultivated ground ; a bog or marsh.

blank canvas

I look at heavy clouds as they fill in the space
between the high-rise block and the pine trees’ top
like a child coloring a picture
through the classroom’s window frame

The view transports me back to high school
those March days where the light was new and pure and fresh
the world was born again
and for a while
we could finally breathe

there I sat in our old classroom
me staring out the window
you staring at me
secretly
both of us
looking forwards
to something yet to grow
but already born
like green sprouts stirring under spring’s moist ground

I was alone in my gaze of the sky
so were you in your gaze of me
two universes
apart
yet together
in the solitary exercise
of silenced affection

The clouds are now long gone, and the canvas blank again
there I draw my vision
of us being in the same room
locked in our own solitude
comforted by parallel secrets
and I keep fixing on the empty space
between the high-rise block and the pine trees’ top
in fear of the picture erased.