As I get older, words come difficult. Blogging becomes more challenging. I don't know where the spontaneity of rambling has gone, but words becomes this scarce thing that gets more and more measured. Like all other things, it becomes more tightly controlled. I miss those days when saying anything was a spur of the moment. So much less of the thinking and rethinking. But honestly, where is that desire to just spurt, any random feeling, any random word and to freely throw language out? It's gone into hiding, like my desire to get a good bowl of Ban Mian, like wanting to run down some street screaming with laughter over something irrelevant and small. It's not that I feel older (although that always seem to be the issue), it's that I feel more controlled. When things move too fast, I get scared. I still like taking risks and trying new things, but that nagging voice asking me "if I am sure" always sneaks up and gets louder each time. IS this the wisdom they call age? It is this measuredness in living, to take each step and to count it, keeping track of the places we've been and the place we're heading? IF it is, perhaps I am getting wiser, but then why do I miss being the fool I was ten years ago?
On Regrets
who can say why
we cross paths
and then go on our own ways
the things past
the forest ferns covered
with dews
are but things along the way
The heart seeks always
on the journey
for a familiar voice
or a company to soothe
the hollow sound of winds
and the darkness of nights
falling so suddenly
but we each travel on our own
carving out our roads
who knows how long paths converge
and companions share journeys
even the best of men and women
come and go into nights
only the maker can know
Through the cold nights
we can only wait for the sunrise
and stretch out those old travel legs
and hear the lonely bird cries
in the orange light
it is desolate
but beautiful
you have such a long way to go
and we don't always get an answer why.