Forgettable

  On this cold autumn night, beneath a pale and restless sky, I miss the cow cat and want to stroke its fur— to feel its quiet warmth beneath my hand. I walk across the yard, through crisp leaves that crackle like small, forgotten letters, searching beneath the trees, beside the steps, along the familiar shadows. Before, whenever I missed it, the cat was always there— appearing as though it knew the shape of my longing. But tonight, there is no white-and-black body moving through the dusk, no soft eyes waiting in the corners of the yard. At first, I feel the emptiness. Then I think: perhaps the cat has found a home— a box lined with warmth, a quiet room, a hand that leaves food and does not let the cold in. Who would choose to remain outside on a night like this? So I listen to the leaves, to the wind moving through the dark, and let my worry soften. Somewhere, I tell myself, the cow cat is curled in comfort, its paws tucked beneath its chest, its breathing slow and safe. I cannot ...

The longer you live, the more strange things you can see.  Like, the one you had the most sex with, was not the one you married to, was the one who cheated so hard that the sex bearer became the fertilized-egg bearer. The one you married to, was the one you had the least sex with. The first one you had sex with, had never said "I love you", regardless the fact you asked many times "Do you love me?"  As the world became more and more modern,  you received serious "I love you" from the other side of world, oceans and mountains away, from the one you're about to have sex with. Without a second of physical touch or coexistence in the same air. What? Love arrived earlier than sex? How can it be? It can be, if you live long enough to see. You started to doubt, what's all about, sex and love. Bodies have electron, telepathy is possible, love is independent from actual physical contact. Sex? Because bodies were designed that way to survive, like to swallow...

At the moment I waited in the line at the grocery store, an English song, Moon River, started to play. Suddenly, the tiredness from a long day eased a bit. The young couple ahead put few packs of ground meat and mayonnaise at the counter, maybe they would make meatballs for dinner, mayonnaise could be for the dip. After she paid, I casually glanced at the payment screen, a 4444 was there for few seconds, I was shocked to see a sign in this way. When I feel weary, the universe plays a song I can understand for me, and tells me the stability, inner strength and the reward of sustained, hard work. How sweet is that! 

The festival arrives with lanterns in other people’s windows, mooncakes on other people’s tables. All day the rain has practiced its soft, relentless drumming, until the sky is one thick, dark blanket with no seam for light to slip through. At night I step outside anyway, tilt my head back, search the black for the host of this feast— the round silver face that is supposed to rise, to pull thoughts of home out of us like tides. Nothing. Only cloud, heavy and unmoving, as if the heavens have drawn a curtain and refused the performance. The wind finds the bare skin of my arms, raises small, cold hills of goosebumps. The forecast was right again: temperature dropping, night turning sharp. I stand there shivering, asking the obvious, foolish question: Why doesn’t the main character of the festival show up? Then another thought, quieter, more dangerous: Maybe she stays away on purpose. If she rose tonight— perfect, full, untarnished— I would have to look at her. In that clear light, every d...

A whole windy day, the rustle of leaves is everywhere from daytime to night. This is the first time since spring, I don't feel any cold in wind. A yellow tree is outstanding, all leaves are yellow in a fresh way, the canary yellow. Yet the gale can't blow a single leaf off the branches. The petioles just buzz like a bee's wings in the wind. The connection between the leaves and the tree survives the wind.  I check the forecast, today is the warmest day of the week, temperature will drop continuously in the following days. I smile as I walk in the mid-autmn sunlight in short-sleeved shirt, gazing at the thickening brown leaves along the streets. Thank you, nature, for the opportunity to finally use the word "scorching" to describe a day here. The first time and seemly the last time.

  The leaves did not ask whether I mourned the year or praised its burning. They loosened quietly from branches that had carried them through all the green days, and the wind, with gentle hands, turned each one over— gold, russet, brief flame— in the late afternoon light. I stood beneath them with no proper feeling ready for the moment. Not sadness. Not joy. Only the strange wish to keep what cannot stay. So I watched. A leaf crossed the sunlight and vanished into shadow. Another settled at my feet like a small, unread letter. Perhaps that is enough: to let the beautiful thing pass, to know a year has gone without calling it loss, to hold the scene not in the hand but somewhere deeper— where the wind still moves through golden air, and I am standing there, silent, remembering.

Auto-pilot is good, auto-pilot is cool, auto-pilot is the future, auto-pilot is what we pursue in the industry. To free your hands, to free your judgement. But we are humans, auto-pilot mind is unhealthy. Are you aware of the inside and outside world? Do you have those inner voices to guide you to the path aligned with your life purpose? If not, we need practice to get rid of the auto-pilot mind. Make actions consciously not the repeating habits.  Something was awaken in me at a young age, was overwhelmed, feeling everyone else can't see what I've seen and felt. I surrender to that frightening. I stopped to talked to myself in my mind. And apparently going with the flow can lead you only to the lowest spot. Right thing to do is to go with a compass, knowing where you're going. Concentrate your energy on that destination.  Can that silent mind be deafening with ideas again?

The street I walk wears memory like bark— each tree a sentinel of years we missed. They used to blush in gold, then brown, then dark, from crown to root, a slow and patient tryst. But now, one-third of every treetop’s bare, as if the sky reached down and plucked them clean. The rest hang on—amber, rust, despair— like promises too fragile to redeem. Even the trees try hard to speak your name: their skeletal fingers trace your silhouette against a sky that knows no two autumns’ same when one half’s warmth is gone, and cold’s the debt. I’ve walked this road through golden, lonely falls, watched leaves cascade like tears the earth recalls. Each crunch beneath my boots, a whispered call— your ghost in every shadow, every stall. I long for touch that isn’t wind’s cold kiss, for hands that warm more than just autumn air. For laughter tangled up in branches’ hiss, for you—not memory—standing waiting there. These trees, they know. They strip themselves to bone, to mirror how I feel when you’re ...

This piece is dynamic, each block will be updated here to open your eyes to world of blockage and to enrich the knowledge of blockage art. All the experience is based on real human reactions, not AI. Hope this record can help you understand better in what conditions blockage can happen, the more you know, the less you feel about it. Then one day you start to admire this intriguing organism named human as a real piece of art of the creator, for its various incomprehensible yet somehow funny behaviour 1. Saying goodbye on audio call at the end of a conversation, get blocked. 2. Shouting goodbye from the other side of the mountain top to the other one who is on another mountain, get blocked*3. 3. Refusing to accept a human as your dog, get blocked. 4. Being unbelievably ugly in those eyes, get blocked. 5. Spam the one you decided cut the connection due to no responsd after 48 hours with mega paragraphs, get blocked. 6. Refusing to get therapy from the person who caused the trauma, who is ...

things. What were those things you didn't think about if I haven't asked those questions in my own unique way? That the masks were too thick? That making it tangible in real life? That turning the probability to 1? That you shouldn't have been silent for the whole year? That you regret casually swiping right at me at 4 a.m. like every other nights? The tone you talk about the little or big stuff in life reminds me of that screenshot of two unpolished paragraphs you sent me twice nervously and clumsily—the last time we saw each other. Words are much more calmer than verbal expressions. Fret not, babe. I wanna hold your don't-know-where-to- put hand and place it on my chest control button then give you the face-to-face data transfer. What did you say and why did you send it separately to me? Time has been long enough to erase my memory. All I can remember, is, that, you said "No, I don't..." How I wish to recover data from that old broken phone.

Rivers have water, humans needs water, rivers nurture humans, humans add a word—mother as a modifier for rivers. I haven’t sat on that bench in almost a year. The river still moves the same— slow at the edges, hurried in the middle, catching the last light the way it always did. People call it mother river , as if water could hold us the way she did. Back then, I came every evening, as if the sunset were a clock and the bench a chair pulled up to a table where she might still sit. I don’t know how I managed it— how my legs carried me, how my chest held all that noise without breaking. Maybe I wasn’t strong. Maybe I was just unfinished, still spilling over, still needing the river to take what I couldn’t carry. Now I stand at the bank again, afraid of the turbulence inside me, afraid it will show in my hands, my breath, my voice. But the water doesn’t ask how strong I am. It only asks that I come, that I sit, that I let it move through me as it always has— nurturing, eroding, rememberin...

Mama, it's done. We tried our best. Can you hear me? We can take good care of each other, don't worry about us. Do have the happiest time and all the wishes come true in that world, mama.  Mama, I'd wipe my tears and clean my nose and keep going, no matter what's ahead of me. Mama, if one day I be in that world, please do let me see you again in the universe much vast than this one.

That was the first time I walked pass the area from the shortcut, cars were parked in a line. I casually glanced at them as I walked by. Then the first 699 showed up, I kept walking, the second 699, at the end of the line, the third 699. I was in a hurry so I didn't stop to snap them one by one. But I can make a record of it before the memory fades away. So many cars in the world with different digits, yet three of them manage to stay at the same place at the moment I pass by a place I usually don't go. What do you want to tell me this time? How can a bond be so astonishing? What kind of connection is it? Hey girl, it's easy. 699,699,699.

Forgot to take the phone with me for a whole day. When I came back, I checked the phone, no missed calls, no unread messages. I feel like I'm nobody, of no impartance. Meanwhile, I guess most people in this era are not free enough like me to live without a phone. Did I feel anxious or the urge to reach out to my phone when I got a second to rest? No, not at all. I wanted to read a paper book but got none by hand. I simply hoped nobody called me or look for me. The strange thing was time passed faster without a phone. My eyes and my temples were happily stressed free. Even though I needed to use my phone to work on something, I enjoyed the day without phone.  Sometimes I wonder how many people hold the memory of life without mobile phones. Can people still have a normal day without screen time? I was lucky to grow up while seeing each milestone of technology. I have the memory of life without cell phones, computers, internet. Electronic products are more like tools to me rather than...

“I'm fine, thank you. And you?”—A standard reply taught in our first English class. Perfectly correct, emotionless polite and orientated to the cultural habits.  But your reply of "I'm fine" tells me you're not. We all know fine<good<great. Besides, selecting a unique word to make the reply vivid is natural as eat drink and sleep, yet the pain "fine" is chosen, polite and distancing. The word "bad" is luckily hidden because the speaker is not intended to stir worries in the listener, I guess.  Something is bothering you, so you exiled yourself to a desolate tribe. But nobody should see what's going on inside, even the internal bad bad things are guarded so the true self is not exposed. I can't imagine how heavy is that for you to carry on. You have to shatter your self into millions piece, to forget who you are for some time, to, here I don't want to use the word "heal", I'd say, to be able to say "fine...

The Booking By the first week of September, the air in Frankfurt had changed. It was not winter-cold, not yet. It was only the kind of cold that slipped through an open window in the evening and rested gently on the skin. The kind that made people reach for socks, pull sleeves over their hands, and turn the lights on earlier than they had the week before. Mara noticed it while standing in her kitchen with a mug of cocoa warming both hands. Outside, the sky had become the pale gray-blue of a thought not fully formed. A few leaves had already gathered along the pavement below her building, gold against wet stone. She watched them circle in the wind and thought, as she often did lately, of Elias. She had never touched him. There had been no first meeting at a station, no awkward hug, no moment of discovering whether his hand was large or small around hers. She knew the shape of his smile from a screen, knew that he tilted his head when he was listening closely, knew he said her name as if...

The air has begun to change— cooler at the window, carrying the first quiet promise of autumn. And somehow, the cold does not make me lonely. It makes me think of warmth. Of a home made softer by your presence— a blanket gathered around us, your hand finding mine as if it has always known the way. I imagine hot cocoa steaming between our palms, sweet and dark, while rain taps patiently at the glass. I imagine flour on the counter, cinnamon in the air, apples warming slowly in the oven, and us laughing over imperfect rolls we would call beautiful anyway. I have never felt you in the ordinary language of touch. Never leaned into your chest or heard your breathing beside me in a quiet room. And still, across all the distance between our worlds, you are the warmth I turn toward. The early autumn wind can take its place at the door. Let the evenings grow darker, let the leaves begin to fall. Somewhere inside me, there is a room prepared for you— lit softly, warm with cinnamon and longing, w...

Crisp September air,   I dream of us snuggled close,   sheltered from the chill.  —  Though you are a world away, thinking of you keeps me warm.

When an emotion dealer, an eminently successful businessman, an elite at the top of the social pyramid, lowers his social status to match the one he wants to pursue, it's love, you know? An extraordinary love—love with benefits.  Don't underestimate the harvest on the net after the ship navigates for a round in the ocean of sentiments. Bad or good, positive or negative, fabulous or miserable, the harvest can not only guarantee a safe and sound winter but also a steady stream of profits in all the following seasons.  A successful businessman cares not about the roles it has to play to get the profits. The goal is maxing harvest, the process is negligible. 

Five months have turned the world upside down, yet they remained there, in a corner along the main road, next to a grocery store allegedly opened around the clock. It's always a mystery to me why some flowers shops are opened for 24 hours. Like, in what occasion would you go to a flower shop at 3 AM? But that can't compare to the picture emerging at late night: three or four ladies, in headscarfs, sitting in a line. In front of them, on the ground, are vases of flowers, rather than serious flowers like red roses, but some mild-colored flowers. They are never there at day time, but they never miss a night to show up there from the lukewarm summer to the snow-covered winter. So my imagination dives in—Selling followers? No. Delivering missions? Yes.  Don't tell me I'm not in a perfectly-simulated game world, now we even got NPC for mission delivery.  Should I try to approach them to ask for my precise mission in this part of the world to finally proceed to the next level?

First day of 9—our month, outside for the day, the moment I glanced at the road, a 999 with a p something passed by to let me see. In the afternoon, the monent I opened the grocery store to exit, an o666ok parking right there to let me see.  You see? How desperately the universe wants to remind me of you! By emphasizing it three times. But who's you? Where's you? What for? Contrary to usual times, no other angelic digits were demonstrated to me at the end of the day, only those 69 were seen. Thanks for the reminder of our month.