You have not known what you are.
You have slumbered upon yourself all your life.
Your eyes have been as much as closed most of the time.
What you have done is already in mockeries.

The mockeries are not you.
Underneath them
And within them,
I see you lurk...

-Walt Whitman


spring one

SOME MUSIC MAKES YOU FEEL JOY, while others invoke sorrow. But this music I'm talking about draws and paints these two condradictory emotional landscapes on the same canvas. They occupy the same beats, the same bars, within the same song, like two different voices in mutual conversation. A strange overlap of hellos and goodbyes, a bittersweet symphony. I've heard this music before. And I was given a chance to listen to it again when I first met you. To the tune of vibrating strings, it played inside me, resonating from my deepest corners to the edges of heavens stretched out to nowhere, reminding me of the first actual memory, heaves of warm breaths before the plunge, colors of undiscernable future. The chords have long since faded into what seems like a long distant dream, yet a fragment, a poetic phrase remains in the still air. I listen to both silence and sound with strained ears, and I dance into the night like a kid disturbing puddles after a summer rain. I dance, dance, dance to an empty orchestra, but with hope in line with the drumless beat.

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