Fluttering by. A seemingly chaotic dance of dips and dives, of colours and their shades, without a beginning and an end, without a known purpose, to the endless song of silence. Not questioning the butterfly, not asking why or when or how or what; being with the butterfly we can lose ourselves in that silent […]
Vanity is the greatest seducer of reason…
Think constantly how many doctors have died, after knitting their brows over their own patients; how many astrologers, after predicting the deaths of others, as if death were something important; cont…
The teacher, you forget her name, is teaching you and a couple of others about recycling.
Shadows of non-being,
The addictive past
You consider the dark years to be from 17 to 21. You were full of uncertainties, insecurities, self-doubt, angry ambition, and pain.
Your grandad died when you was 12. It was the summer holidays, and surprisingly you do remember the sun.
Being a westerner in the east was my inspiration for this poem.
The wind that blows the branches,
Of the tree you sit with,
Next to your love.
A poem I wrote whilst riding a typical bus in Taipei.