Soon

"Though I have not seen Him, my heart knows Him well."

the story will continue very soon..

The curator and I - Note books (1 of 2)

..

If I were to distribute a little note book to everyone, and let them write down their thoughts. After a couple of weeks, I would collect them back, admire how in different shapes and sizes they were returned, and pass it on to the curator.

He will start putting together the notes that were torn apart, read through line by line, smile and laugh, or wipe his eyes with an old, reddish handkerchief. I felt as if years has passed while he was doing this, and he would hand me each note book after reading thoroughly, and I will release it while it flew high and hung in midair, like a gentle cloud, in the exhibition hall.

It seemed like a thousand year's worth of thoughts in seconds filled the ceiling. "Light them up", said the curator. So I picked up the strings of light bulb laying by the side of the hall, laid it over my shoulders and summoned gently, the floating ladder.

I was sweating when I have climbed the last step. The ladder extends itself so high to reach the top. Finally I can do my job now, slowly without awakening each bulb, I hold each string to my mouth and blew the light bulbs with long, soft breaths; and like a lazy yawn, they detach from the string and find its rest in each note book.

Light bulbs are very light and sleepy little creatures, but if there is any love found in the place where they nest in, they will wake up, and light up. But even as all the note books has a bulb nested in by now, the grand exhibition hall stayed very, very dark.

I feel weird, weirder than a stomachache. Because my heart feels a little painful, and big drops of salty tears began rolling down my cheeks. The curator said to me that it is a normal thing and wiped it off with his red handkerchief.

"I have an idea to make it brighter", the curator said, with a sudden big grin. =)

(to be continued..)




       

光

Have you ever run your fingers in a sunset light.

It rained

It rained,
It rained.

My tiredness seeps away into the cold drain.

I stand myself in the middle of it all,
this humble symphony of awe.

Stretch your hand into the little hope,
And the liquid chill drips into you.

The dancing trees, waves of circles.
Shadow in the light of you.

Flash and low roar.
Comfort, comfort, in your roar. Gentleness.

The melody droning, like a father's bedtime song.


Sweep me away..



Can't feel the light kiss on forehead,
It rained,
It rained.

Being odd

"A real Christian is an odd number anyway. He feels supreme love for one whom he has never seen. He talks familiarly every day to someone he cannot see, expects to go to heaven on the virtue of another, empties himself in order that he might be full, admits he is wrong so he can be declared right, goes down in order to get up. He is strongest when he is weakest, richest when he is poorest, and happiest when he feels worst. He dies so he can live, forsakes in order to have, gives away so he can keep, sees the invisible, hears the inaudible, and knows that which passeth knowledge.”

~A.W. Tozer