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?