To Be or Not to Be

Montage, Repost

At the end of every day, the thoughts of being a part of universe weigh on us:
at every empty space, there are infinite possibilities:

to be or not to be

someone’s loudest silence / flower on the window / lyric on an instrumental single / favorite color of crayola / good news on a grey sky morning / a quote on recipe book / a French-grammar enthusiast / a Saturday / snowy February / an unfinished sketch / a pretty nice mistake / part of a plan / a long distance best friend / lover

Railing Gate

/ his favorite pattern on the street / his home.

At the end of every day, the thoughts of being a part of universe weigh on us:


(A repost from an old post in

How I Met Your Mother

Short Story

Since 1975

If you ask me how I met your mother, it would barely make an episode of TV series. It would only be a descriptive short prose. If it were a picture, it would be lack of color. Don’t get me wrong, being colorless is not the same with being ugly.

I was a painter back then. I could tell you through painting how green the grass was or how the red of the brick wall was faded. I could tell you how blue the sky was or how grey my shadow looked as the sun rose. On my way to 23, I lost my senses of color. I lost my ability to sing the blue and dance with yellow. I lost them all when I realized that most painter would starve.

So how did I meet your mother? She was a ‘found’ after a ‘lost’. She was a rainbow I never expected. She was a gift presented by the uncountable drops left by a heavy rain. Literally.

When It Rained in Kyoto #8

I met her on a rainy day in 1975 inside a new cake shop. The smell of freshly baked shortcake was combined with slight dampness of rain brought by umbrellas near the entrance waiting for their owners. I just put more dampness instead of more umbrella.

My bag was empty because I did not bring anything for drawing anymore. I was waiting for the rain to pour just less. She was paying her medium sized box of cake. A couple of moment later, I saw her standing still. Her right hand was holding the cake box, while her left was clutching a book with the same size of my drawing book and a worn out pattern-less bag at the same time. As I looked at her shoulder-length curly hair, I noticed that no more grip was available for an umbrella.

I said hello. She said hello. I introduced myself, “I used to be a painter. I have just quitted,” and offered a help. She said, “I made my guess that you were a painter. But I’d guessed that you were too good to ever quit. Let me make another guess: you’d start again anyway, but not today. Because it might be a-conspiracy-created-by-high-power so your bag is not too full that you can help me to bring my book.”

“And who are you exactly? A crystal-ball reader without crystal ball?” I asked; half-smiling.

“No. I am a novelist and was about to stop this morning. But less than a minute ago, I just realized that I’m just good at creating stories. Or in your case, keeping a story to go on.”

The rain poured less and less.

I’ve fallen for her ever since.


(I thought about Prisanti Putri when I wrote this, and Pedro, I borrowed your words. Obrigada!)