I wrote this last night,
I. Summer
I find you in crevices. I wake up folding the sun into my pocket. It shines in protest and as I step out in the gasping morning sky, I let it out with a laugh. Summer is playing with the sun and the sweating flowers. That is when I spot you, smiling up at me. You’re a small daisy, stuck between the greyish roads, piercing your fragile, green stem. I crouch to see you, but you pull back; leaves crossing against one another. I place a finger, whispering. Trust me. You notice my eyes, and let my fingers cradle you. You’re in my pocket, right in front of the sun. You smile. I show you the world.
II. Monsoon
I find you in winds. I’m standing amidst the falling rain. Each droplet is a word, and I taste it all. I taste the pages of the entire dictionary. You, my dearest, are a droplet of the rainbow. The clouds slowly give way to the sun, and the droplets align and form a string of seven colours. You fall continuously on my face. You divide in trust. My eyes flash open as neon after neon crash like the waves of an ocean. I see everything in nothing. I’m scattered over the ground.
III. Autumn
I find you in wet grounds. The suns coalesce into rains. I’m against the balcony, facing the pound of the heavy, pregnant clouds. The sun flashes and falls onto the parched earth in the lightning; the earth screaming in pain and resolution. You’re the lightning, the voice of the sun. You see me looking up at your streak as you hit the tree and electrify the nerves of the soil, making the earth yell in pleasure. I’m in love with trusting you. You silently come to me and curl into my arm, like you did in your past life. You lighten my blood. I smell the heart burning in love.
IV. Winter
I find you in jasmines. It doesn’t snow here, near the ocean. Instead, small, sweet buds curl themselves around the grills. In the morning, you pull yourself to my glass. You watch me sleep blissfully until the sun hits me. The sunrays are cool and you shiver, joining the other buds. I see you in trust. Knees on the shivering granite, I place a gentle pad on your white body. You look curious. I cradle you in my journal, pressed to my heart. You whisper my thoughts to the words.
Like the several seasons, we ‘re one another’s destiny: connected by past lives.
Fanda, you made it. As cliche, repeated as it sounds, I must say it again — I am proud of you. A year’s long. 12 months, 52 weeks, 365 days, 8760 hours, you get it. So I’m proud of you for pulling through, showing up, just you being here is plenty enough, and I hope you take the moments to thank yourself.
It’s an impending reconciliation with 2022 you’re expected to partake in. Unfortunately (or realistically), I see life in scales of grey. The glass almost always has just enough water, not every country has 4 seasons. So I’ll tell you what I really want to tell you now.
I’d like to think that each year hands over a new set of cards. The deck might be the same universally, but there’s no one out there with the same draw as you. And if you had the draw of luck, how mighty fortunate are you. If yours was considerably bad, I hope you have the courage to look forward to a new deck when the new agecomes.
But what remain is this — yesterday will pass like the day before, today is still in passing. When midnight strikes But what remains is this — and I turns to 2, and the magic lasts til a minute after, tomorrow will still come. Your winter turns to spring like it always promises. The glass still has water.
It would be irresponsible of me to wish for you a better year when I simply cannot guarantee that, when the course of fate of any new thing is as much in your hands as it is a higher power. What I can wish is for kinder to yourself when the cards are thrown, and that you’ll keep moving, new age or not. Just like you yesterday, today, the days forthcoming.
So yes, you’re made it. I am proud of you. For what you’ve done so far, and what you’ll do for the years to come.
Happy birthday, nda, I am forever proud of you.
