Good morning September. August ended in a little bit of tear falling down, promise me that even when you manage to cry me a river, in the end, it would be memorable meaningful tears.
Picture taken at 05:26 a.m.
Picture taken at 05:43 a.m.
Morning from the window
Picture taken at 06:07 a.m
Sun came out
Picture taken at 05:56 a.m
Requiescat in Pace, my August!
I love hearing the raining sounds, not ” a sound ” but ” sounds “. It combines a variety of functionally delicately authentic movements, which then appear to your ears and eyes as solely raindrops. Personally, when it comes to rain, I could hear the yearning and scream of my imagination flip-flopping, causing me to stroll back and forth restlessly, like a Buckingham Palace’s Guard on his first date with Princess Kate. And then, when minds have rested and souls have gathered, all the things silent and the real me heads back to my desk in which all the books are piecemeal collected and packages are packed. All the trivially important matters are no longer perceived: I am ready for a bigger journey-the journey to the west side of the dreamy land.
“I like it when it rains hard. It sounds like white noise everywhere, which is like silence but not empty.” – Mark Haddon, The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time
- The houses are raining in my town
My trip to Da Lat was like a storm. The city had me ran like a freaky mouse and left like a pauper begging for more…
_._Đà Lạt blooming_._
Here is a little story during my trip. I and my brother were playing in the Reception Area, waiting for mom to come down so that we would start our expectedly unexpected “Da Lat night tour” then suddenly, an oddly genial, jocose voice came out right next to me. I turn around, curiously gave a quick glance over my shoulder. To my surprise, it was a boy and his sister. The boy was asking the receptionist for his car key while still playing with his sister with both of his hands. I was not sure what was happening then ’cause all I remembered was that the woman who was supposed to have had given the boy his car key then had already exhibited an overly entertaining smile on her face. She was about to say something to the boy, but I couldn’t hear a word because he then lifted his sis on both hands and then all of a sudden, he turned his head and smiled at me. A very much gentle smile as if he had all the words done and was about to say something to me. I was stupefied, dazzled by the capricious moment because of neither his thick, curly hair nor his glittering eyes or his staggeringly long legs. It was all about his smile, and though being very anxious, I couldn’t tell how stupid I accidentally “acted” at that moment. I – a deeply dumbfounded 17-year old girl – did nothing but pretentiously attempted to be calm and super duper collected, while surreptitiously begging him to pick up the conversation. “Please say something, anything”-I thought. Unfortunately, there was no conversation. The female receptionist handed out his car key and I, dressed in a crimson, beetle-detailed dress then stared at the door in which the boy had just left, grieving over my stupid, untimely shyness.
I didn’t see the boy coming back the hotel again during my 2-day trip, which was, to be honest, a bit disappointed. But that did not put me down in the least, as I still found myself enjoyed every moment in this beautiful city.
Fell for it.
Seventeen Came true
They say: “Each and every photo has its own story” but I say, each and every picture its own is a story. And most of the time, they are our stories.
P/s: There were some corners that you might want to drop by. For Heaven’s Sake! You must.
I was trying to find a title for my Morning Pictures Collection; unfortunately, there was nothing quite fresh…
There was a boy who stole my heart.
Before he disappears forever, he left me.
I have a chance to meet,
there is so much I want to ask
and so much I want to tell.
So much has happened since the last time I wrote something.
I went on some trips, participated in ” Volunteering Sunday” with my friends, visited the Hung Kings’ Temple for the first time with my family (which was extra-special because of my grandparents’ presence), ate vegetarian food on Buddha’s Birthday with Mom in one of the most beautiful pagodas I had ever visited, experienced the feeling of being embarrassed in front of the whole class for the first time, picked up Yoga class with Mom. And at the moment, I am planning to study Germany myself.
There are also a bunch of new books that I bought for the ” Summer Read “, some of which are Terrorist by John Updike ( who was one of only three writers to win the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction more than once ), Mr. Mercedes – a crime – fiction novel by Stephen King, the Counterfeiter by Andre Gide, and Digital Fortress by Dan Brown.
Tomorrow would be a brand new day.
So this is how Summer came. Not actually noticed it, but its subtle smell wouldn’t let me go.
Summer came with its so-called smell. April came with every possible inch of rain.
Raining in April is like a smell because it truly deeply is a smell: a fragile yet unmistakably seductive scent of Gardenia, a bluntly nostalgically striking fragrance of summer night that can only be noticed once you step out of your front door. Raining in April is like a chilly ringtone that constantly reminds you of your childhood, an old taste that comforts your irritating soul, a lullaby that sings you to sleep, an image of your long lost friend. Raining in April is nothing but laughing, smirking, crying, tumbling, reminiscing, strolling, and definite falling. Raining in April is a sadness that you are willing to get addicted to but insistently choose to neglect its existence, just like the first time you saw him.
Youth flows indside this dignity