Epiphany. Constraint. Place. Time. Paralysis. Escape.
Dublin, Taipei, Naples, too small to contain a life. Where should a person’s story begin? The girl at the pier. Bloom’s day. A passerby under Christian light. A train, extending forward, yet trapped in the same loop.
Nanjing West Road. Archaeology of a city. Sunlight. Miswritten. Summer winds. Ice cream. Sausages from the corner stall. Sleeveless shirts. Pencil and poetry. Faraway buildings. The answer is blowin’ in the wind.
The lane before the house. What lay behind the shop? The teacher’s car is at the laundry by the roadside. Hamsters and their deaths. Colored pens, Barbie dolls, storybooks, “A Hundred Whys.” Clay boxes and spiders. Piano practice. Transparent tape. Iron bars on the window. Pink curtains. Ballet in locked rooms. Rainy daylight with lamps lit. A badminton racket was thrown aside. Schoolyard tests. Five flights of stairs. Eight hundred jump ropes. Summer wind again.
Leaving. Walking. Cars. Outside. Study study study. Debate debate debate. Fewer images now, life narrowing into routine. Better at writing, less able to write. Fewer books. More exams. Films. Outings. Not-playing. Writing anyway. Debates again. Ideals dominate the world. Knowing is easy, doing is hard. The affirmative should win. TOEFL drills. Forgotten foxes. Poetry at night, half-lit stars. Literature class. Literature class. No literature class. Winter break is ending.
Pure repetition and monotony—are they not twins?
And then—your epiphany.
Tell me: which leaf did you see?