Dear October,ghost friendI've been meaning to write to you. Who are you, ghost friend? Are you the forest, the sea, the tiny, pretty things you can buy in the city for cheap? Are you the books, the paints, a warm home cooked meal? Are you the lost letters, the lost days, lost chances? Have the past few years been any indication at all? A few things I wish you are not: the spineless who cannot keep one’s word; the...

Continue Reading

 i.the time apartis now bearablego on my daywithout your face,without a thoughtof the past, of presentnor imagined futurewhere are you? will Ilose you againfor another year?forget once morethe lessons taught,lessons unlearned,learning over and overyour constancy I lack:so keep betting onluck half-believed;so will work again,over and over forlittle increments of payand grow once moreflowers in your garden barebecause the time apartis now bearablego on my dayyour face from afaryet still in thoughtsthe past, the presentmy future...

Continue Reading

Dear January,attachment / detachmentThe state of detachment goes both ways: it is ideal in a world of many changes and uncertainties, but it has its own pitfall. Who are we without our attachments to people, our professions, our favorite things, our homes, our cities? Who are we if not our parents' children, our siblings' brothers/sisters, someone's friend, someone's spouse, someone's lover, or our children's parents? It is said that our individual lives only truly exist...

Continue Reading

Dear October,I managed to squeeze in some time to watch all four seasons of The Handmaid's Tale. So excited for the upcoming seasons! Wrote about it in my journal and thought I might share it here. In case you have no plans of ever watching the show (although I suggest you should — it's good!), hopefully you may still get something out of this. Needless to say, be warned: spoilers ahead! Just to give a bit of a...

Continue Reading

So — It's been more than a year since my last letter in this blog. Admittedly, this isn't the first attempt on making some sort of a comeback. I tried writing several times before and often started with what happened in my life while I was gone, trying to fill in the gaps. But when writing, I would also think: who in the world cares? What's the significance of something quite trivial happening to me to some...

Continue Reading

Dear March, Found myself alone in a part of the city that I do not usually go to. Without steady connection on my phone, I could not look up exactly where I was or book a ride to get myself out of there. Public vehicles were also nowhere in sight. I was unequivocally lost and alone. I panicked, as you do in such situations. A few weeks ago, I decided to finally quit my job....

Continue Reading

Dear February, the last of the fading light There is a deliberate time delay in live television broadcasts which a quick search says is exactly seven seconds. Its purpose is to have a bit of time to screen out whatever is undesirable for tv; sort of like a breathing room. I keep putting off taking stock of the events of the past couple of months, partly because whatever it is that is happening is not...

Continue Reading

Dear December, It is easier to explain why you no longer fit into your clothes: you may have grown tall or gotten fat, or the clothes may have shrunk in the wash. But when you no longer fit into a certain place, or a certain group, you recognize it as such but cannot easily point out why. There are times when I am struck with certainty that it is time to go and look for...

Continue Reading

Dear August, My friend and I met up and talked about isolation. The week prior had been rough as I had to deal with letting go of people. Then, it seemed like asking for more when I went on to live alone for a week in a city so strange and vast. Yet, ironically, the solitude afforded me solace and a most welcome company, that is, myself. I was also at a point in my...

Continue Reading

Dear June, The long stretch of road is daunting; but it affords me time to mull things over, to just see and just exist. No use in trying to put into film these passing scenes on a moving window, the light peeking through every roadside tree, these mountains and these oceans; they all end up blurry and shaky. Better yet to capture a feeling than chase a memory with a tangible thing such as a...

Continue Reading

midnight Words rolled off the tongue at midnight, I found. Anyone could promise you anything, worst of all love or friendship. But such promises gave little consolation. If anything, what a promise could set us up for was the disillusion. We got lost on the road. And I fell asleep and missed the first moments of dawn. By the time I woke up, we somehow found the right way and everything looked too bright.  sunrise...

Continue Reading

When something has stirred something within you - a nostalgia for what can never be - you first dive in and eventually sink into this feeling of being out-of-touch. Underwater, you exist. But life is less real. Words out of your mouth cease to come across as they should. The order of things are muddled. Perhaps this world - the world that is real - is not mine to live in. Some place somewhere, some...

Continue Reading

Restless summers end. Now there is time to catch one’s breath and there is a bit more room to grow. Summer unfolds through conversations, crossing oceans, bus rides. What remains is a pile of thoughts for mulling over. After all is done, what has changed over the course of a summer? i. Midnight on the road; nothing to see but the measured interval of roadside lamps. I breathed in the air that carried with it...

Continue Reading

Dear May, We left at four in the morning while the rest of the city was still asleep. I sat by the car window and wrapped myself snugly with a scarf. I listened to Petit Biscuit and began to doze off. One time I woke up to look at the dawn outside the window, which was casting this dreamy, bluish glow on our sleepy faces. It felt like a scene belonging to a film, especially...

Continue Reading

Dear August, i. In Alice Munro's short story collection, Too Much Happiness, there's a piece called Face.  It was about a boy who had a big, wine-colored birthmark on his face. This birthmark gave his father a reason not to like him, even calling him, "a chunk of chopped liver."  He had a childhood friend named Nancy, the daughter of the woman who was staying at their guesthouse. The two children became inseparable and most of the story...

Continue Reading