a daylight dream

The past couple of days have been slow, mostly and imperfectly present, a redemption towards more stillness and peace. Less time on the Internet, more time spent decorating my study notes, more time spent praying, connecting with friends and staring at a blank page of a new chapter, writing down a few pages or one, or a sentence or not at all. It feels regenerative to accept my imperfection and deem it as wholesome. Today was also my last day of online work. I wasn't expecting to be let go until the end of May or even June, but under the light of the current circumstances, less is definitely more for many organisations. It felt searingly painful to acknowledge that I won't earn any money or do something valuable for others for a very long time, and it even got me to feeling a little bit anxious and not enough. But, a few deep breaths later, I knew I was enough. I was grateful for this opportunity hidden behind this setback and I felt my original sense of resilience, on

I woke up one morning before the sun; it was dark and quiet. The ordinary sounds of buses and cars have vanished into the unknown and the whole world is sleeping, but the morning is busy with fading starlight and spring bird-songs. I remember that nothing is the same anymore. I won't be rushing this morning to clean and prepare myself for the day. It's all new but utterly the same. I wake up and I ask myself: " what does your future look like? " I turn the question inward and let it reflect upon the mirrors of my mind, and so it beams with parallel answers that keep diffracting from one angle to another. I can think in terms of melancholic darkness all the way to ecstatic hope at the same time, but this morning, it feels more at home to feel  afraid . I'm afraid because I am not sure what the future looks like anymore. This intense state the world is experiencing is more of a battle of survival and a graveyard of buried hopes for so many and