As a storyteller, one of my main modes of sharing narrative is through writing. Here are several works ranging from essays to creative writing pieces all touching upon themes I love to muse over: culture, philosophy, martial arts, design, self-development, social issues, and even existentialism to boot.
Please enjoy.
As my family tells it, his face—with its defined lines grooved by dirt, strife and time—held a solemn look most days. Weary or apathy was not the matter, it was a face well worn. A face having spent time in his village watching the nearby river slowly dismantle the fading banks. Even with all those years between him and the war, it was a face etched with wrinkles wrought by the tears he could no longer shed. Anymore, his mood would shift only after dinner.
We aren’t owed anything in this world and I personally do not believe the universe has any inherent meaning specifically lawed by nature for us humans, the minuscule things that we are in the greater vastness of space.
And yet, despite believing such, life is full of poetry.
Again the rain begins. And so it’s been. Stare long enough out there into that rain-streaked window and you may start to lose sight of the picture on the other side. What you may start focusing on however, are the little globs dribbling down glass panes. Some droplets may defiantly cling, holding on rather than sliding down to meet with others. Some likely pool in a corner, weighing heavily with every patter.
Waiting. Weighing. Waiting.
They say you build a thick hide the more you endure. I still feel soft inside, though the metal armor I’ve slowly wrapped around my identity continues to dent and ding with the passing of time. I suppose that’s the nature of armor. The moment you put it on, its usefulness is in absorbing the blows. And there have been many.
Time. Like passing trains on parallel tracks. I’m crammed into one in New York, and then Boston, then Chicago. In every car I see clear, lucid frames, my window intersecting with the windows of the passing carts, all quick snapshots in time. I don’t know the person on the other side of the frame, but for one moment we share a space. It’s so tangible, I want to rewind the film, 35mm subway cars realigning that I may ask through these windows:
Who are you?
Have we met?
How far away was it from here?
