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

There are so many places to go in this vast world, and so much still to do while I'm young—and yet, at times, a deep sense of having no place for my heart creeps in, and I find myself looking back again and again at the path I’ve come. Unresolved questions still linger in a corner of my mind. Every so often, they resurface—bringing with them a fleeting, sweet taste of something detached from reality. Times I’ve passed through unrestrained. At times heavy and desperate, at others lighter than dust—I must have staggered and swayed, carried along by whatever drew me, whichever way the wind blew. I want to be drenched in a downpour—like the rush of ecstasy in the rain shown in The Shawshank Redemption. I want to run endlessly across the plains of western Canada. Like Forrest Gump, like Jack Kerouac, in search of a conclusion where I might encounter my ideal—wherever that may be. Life, you see...is a sheet of thin ice that might not end in a happy resolution, like a drama or...

Sergey-Pesterev-tJnqdD5sO_M-unsplash It feels like just yesterday I was spending Christmas vacation, digging out the joys of the year’s end buried in winter’s snow—and yet here we are, already in May. Though I’ve been counting the days, fully aware that spring was on its way, I didn’t realize the time had already carried me to May. What cycle, what chain of associations is holding my thoughts hostage? The campus in May would often be alive with festivals blending premature daytime heat and the chill that settled in overnight. Protests—once casually referred to as “demos”—were a natural part of the lives of young university students who lived in that same time. They were weary, burdened youth who carried within them countless questions about life itself. The powder of tear gas buried in the leaves and corners of the campus would dissolve and run whenever it rained, bringing on unseasonal tears. We accepted it all as if it were the most natural thing,...

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...