Reflective Writing and Poetic Musing by Condemiang + Stories About the World

There is a window of mine where the cold of winter lingers. A window unseen, unopened—not by me. It casts a shadow heavy as life itself my small defiance against a world grown dim. These quiet corners where time blurs all things into distance. The ache of accepting what I can never hold. And the longing that will not fade, led always by the traces that will not disappear. My lost familiar rhythms. My verses once tireless and lovely as the footsteps of children at play. My deep passions that glowed without polishing. The azaleas that came running with spring. The little mirror I used to see only when I turned away. The thousand reflections of myself that streamed within it. The soft, steady sound of my mother shaping trees. The bashful footsteps of my tipsy father, late at night. I once had a window through which every fearful wind of the world melted away. A window I closed—and yet through which everything still shone so vividly clear.

A resting place where my soul may sit or lie Where a gentle shadow lays its steady trace Day or night A story I can lean on and listen always One who holds within Like brushing leaves from a bench Even if it be but the lightest burden of passing time I long to run to you to lift it away O Thee

She looked at me and—wove and offered a smile. Like a snow-white angel. ...I was poor, and all I had were dreams, So I laid my dreams beneath your feet. -W.B. Yeats-

She came to me. And at that moment, she became the only being that bore color in that place.

Love of my life, I'm here, just a little distance from you. I can smell your breath, and I can hear your smile. Look at me—just for a moment— before you burn out. You, the endless whisper of my life. We cross the one-third line, from time to time. I rushed out to see the sunset—pure gold after the pouring rain. And to see your face. And to breathe you in.

Friends, look to the heavens—the ones we can see with our own eyes. But we do not truly see them. It is with the eyes of the mind that heaven comes into view.

I've never seen such a mystic panorama. It looks like your lips—but it's too cold. It looks like your nails—but it's too soft against my back.

A Gothic-style church near the Royal Pavilion in Brighton, England. Beyond the small branches, like our anguish and agony, the former splendor once enjoyed by George IV is being obscured. They say nothing lasts forever in this world,  but if you think about it,  there is nothing truly finite either.  For we shall wander again  in another river,  another soil,  and  in countless other forms. Yet after coming to know  a still and unwavering eternity  through your death,  we have come to understand  just how trivial  that splendor and majesty,  hidden by mere branches,  truly is.

Dance like no one is watching Sing like no one is listening Love like you have never been hurt before Work like you don't need money Live like there is no tomorrow -Alfred D'Souza- Dance, song, love, work, and an attachment to life— Too humble to say that I’ve enjoyed them, but when I look back, They are nothing but the most precious words. How much have I enjoyed, And how much will I enjoy? What are you worrying so much about? Are those people, in their many thoughts and forms, dwelling in times filled with dance, song, love, work, and attachment? I am reminded of that bald man sitting in a worn-out pub, with a glass of beer in front of him, lost in his worries.

Should it rain...... The backs of people you often see while walking down the street—they carry thoughts like melted candle wax, and in none other than their own figures, they see cars, the street, the road, and others. Why do people's backs look so lonely? Whether it's clear or cloudy or rainy, the faint and worn-out light in a corner of the city is not even enough to draw a single space of my own. Why does your back look so lonely? Whether it's clear or cloudy or rainy, you carry your weary shoulders through a corner of the city. Sometimes, even a metasequoia tree is nice, or even a common plane tree—if it's decorating above your head, walking that road from which no one knows when you'll return could be a good thing. If it’s a rainy day, even better. If you are with someone who will cover your side full of window scars, then even without an umbrella, you will s...

The day after the loud, crashing rain poured down, under the scorching blaze of the sun that replaced the rain, the sky was so clear and beautiful, as if mocking the world. After finishing work, I rushed out of the office and struggled to get to the Han River as quickly as possible, but the heavy streets of Seoul, crowded with people and vehicles packed in like crates, did not allow freedom of movement. Inside the car, I was in anguish, watching with a heavy heart as the golden sunset wilted away. I like the center. Not leaning to either side—and sometimes, only once in a while, leaning slightly this way or that—that kind of taste. But now, the bridge that would hold such balance must be too dangerous, right? Sweating profusely, I hurried along to Banpo Bridge. The beautiful sunset had already passed… And yet— The traces of the sunset mixed with the clouds and the sky, and the clumsy decorations...

What shall we call ourselves? “Man is the measure of all things.” —Protagoras the Sophist— Are we truly the measure of all things, as he claimed? Here, we have captured what can be seen between one meter above the ground and a space one billion light years away. Let us humbly reflect on the size of the “we” we speak of now, and on what the existence of “we” truly means. Just as an ant takes a step to climb Mount Everest, let us too set off into the vast universe with the small power of science.