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I’m writing all aforementioned while sitting on the edge of the building, in the silhouette of the morning sun. A waft of breeze departs me from the dreariness, unhinged. I found myself in and out of a tidal wave, as if drowning is the only way to stay afloat.
It all serves, too difficult to confess.

In susurration, the landscape exhales something in the color of trees, the temperature last night, and the slant of daylight.

How carried I was (still am) by the unexpected field we encountered, the confidant dialogue we built, the emotional walls we broke. There is a part in my brain that grief won’t grow. Summer in Cangyuan was not lachrymose. The lyrics of Under the Flying Clouds alludes every one of those who are too heavy for me, whom I can’t let go of.

I was not ready for my unscheduled departure from nowhere to nowhere. Many were the tears shed by me in my last adieus to a place so much beloved, and to everyone who makes the place the place.

Do I continue the same, unconscious of the pleasure or regret I occasion, insensible of any change in those who walk under my shade?

"Tell me how far you will go if you really want to keep me close.” The lyrics sounds present yet absent, too familiar to pay attention to, though it hints me on our unspoken accord. “I remember tears streaming down your face when I said I will never let you go.” As a result it can't advance, it can't take the upper hand. I'm euphoric with that firm embrace though i never ever shared it with anyone else. Without a lucid expression to each other we know that, if we chose to, we could venture into something reckless, even pointless. “Feeling close but we are faraway, farther than we think we are.”

As the cabin fell languish, I found my sentience lucid than expected. Is the caffeine reining in the back, out of all cases as the most eminent one? It’s way better than the impasse of drowsiness anyway. The interstice of the window shut down glimmers. Amorphous sense of prelude. I’m stunned with and at peace with the pace my two neighbors and I created. At the moment while their breath calmed arms staggered in their dreams, I hope I am too. “There’s monster in my dreams, I should fight’em but I let them in. It’s killing me slowly.”

The nightmare creeped as the plane is declining height. As the air pressure changes my ear didn’t feel well. All the machinery rumble made a soundscape in and of itself. “Meet me in the middle of night and let me hear you say everything’s okay.” I shut out the world to open up thoughts, to let the inner universe take over. As I'm inwardly present and completely distant comes the greatest moment that transcends all language. To compose poetry is not to utter but to listen, so does anthropology.

The astonishing sunset awaits us, no matter the exact time, as long as we dove down high from above and saw through at the right time. The New York City leaned, boosting its colonies of glow that stood in the night. I threw my sight from the window. What's happened there? Whose light is it? Whom is it lit for? I wonder, and I can’t see it clear. But the depth index is too big to see it clear; the blur blurs. Physically and figuratively.

"Maybe when I'm older it will all come down but it's killing me now.” What am I to cling on, if even the evanescent waft fails to remain intact? A shaft of ineffable dread strikes me.

I appealed to my little nook of nonchalance, the insular of words i dwell upon whenever needed. The gentle riptide of another life-wayfinder found me well, gratefully before the mental stress saps the strength. He's at peace with himself yet at odds with the world, Whereabout reads. It resonates with my subconsciousness, for I fathom it as a tactic of abiding all unideal, if only I were dare to live with this insurgency. In the ambient voices riddled with glib claims, pros and cons, I’m trembling, unconvinced.

In the seat reserved for me and only for me, i clenched to the sentience excluded for me, excluded for my presence at the site at the moment. The lachrymose baby disturbs and retunes the shapeless stillness that has kept me sane. I grew acquainted with malaise. I frame it as perennial. Lament not, given that the crowd is blind of what my feelings of mind affords me, unhinged. “Free is feeling they can’t take from you.”

Seats away the window left me a last gate that opens to the outside world, the residue of experience, springing. Clouds scudded by, too slow, too quick. The sky was dissolving in pink and blue, a hue that consoles passenger of all kinds. Until the tilt was steered too high to see the realm not yet darkened, as if the sun departed upon the same lane as the flight did. Unpredictable weather, unconjugatable caprice.

When all is said, the site no longer matters; it makes little difference whether i'm burned in the heating sun, caught in a heavy rain, or sailed across a navy ocean. They are to weave in one crease somewhere inside me. Nevertheless, from another dimension, the site means something hard, engraved, irreplaceable. These days in home I found myself disheartened, nonplussed, and suffocated. Out in the city I navigated through the giddy horde, antisocial. There’s no subversive changes but nuance shifts that eventually leave the sentiments in deluge. I felt like a caged elf. I questioned my staunch nature.

“I miss the day when the glass is always half full”, when I was exuberant always, at least in front of you, my heaviest confidant. It’s feeling colder inside than outside; I know, relieved that I didn’t initially, all is irrevocable. Those detritus of enchantment repaints the vibe of mine. I owed it all, to the ones that imprinted me. What’s wrong with my mawkish side? Why is eccentricity to be censured? Who else sway one stronger than the self does? One can't ask the sea to never swell in rage. In that you've forsaken your role as my defender, i build my enclosure higher, thicker, colder than the backyard fence, so there's no errands, no means of lapse, of censure. You know everything yet about life——the one I devoted to live. Terrified to admit, I hesitated when asked whom I am referring to.

Half explicit thrill, half insidious vehement. Full fugitive conviction. My second journey towards America. What happened last summer in Texas flew by on some occasion. That’s the center of incidence, not mentioning millions clips of the periphery, the subjective. which stifled my intimidated solider in an unexpected battlefield.  “Tell me where dose time goes, it’s like I’ve had my eyes closed.” Some memories are encapsulated. The world seems to remember more I wish to.

As those ego pitfall, the outside order of time becomes my last propel. I never settle, sometimes tarry. I rearranged the handy necessities in the backpack, inspecting within, behind, beyond. The ruffles hinged implies a constant shuffle between packing and unpacking; I never settle, sometimes hover around. “Beneath the flying cloud the home assumed forgotten.” Adrift, astray, bewildered, confused, impassive, apathetic, capricious, unsettled. I'm related to these related words. The plane of the rite of passage takes off, me the only passenger.

started the day in disparate paces
clustered in a rash
Things began.
Disconcerting reality stroke.
None of us had a way out.
I frowned. I trembled.
It’s getting colder outside.

words coagulated in framed narratives
where I hardly find a way in,
though didn’t put down conversing with them;
I hear their voices resounded
tensions as time terminated.
Scrambled in silence,
It's getting colder inside.

Only when the guises of expectation are gone
Was I able to meet this tinge of ineffable confidant
Often ambushing behind the tune from days to places
Where self-gaze sails across something in and of itself.
Over the nuvole flies men in chaos off meaning loss
Wafted down detritus of love in strikes of turmoil.
Omens scudded before stunned, defying gravity
With nuanced remembrance of odor antidotes
Orienting my soul in shivering flux, astringent enough
When silence is not heard, nor eyes are met.

Words de-surfaced, drowning me dizzy.

In reverse of the waddle wheel
the landscape runs back in blow
of winds that take a hair threadlike’s hand
to dance a trickle of pathos
when I swallow.
Not thoughts of of prattle, but roars within struggle
as if time concreted through spaces, still,
to contingency thee confide.
What a subtle heaviness to stand where I shall revel
What a terrible freedom to know what I cannot sail

It’s gonna end.

But until now I can’t even tell
what I am missing,
for what, and by whom?