1,2,3, I can’t count your laughter.

It was a sunny Friday, and I bet you can’t have found anything more beautiful than that. I bet.

It was the second time I volunteered in the Child Development Center. I never question the name, though I think I should, because it is no more than a place where certified grown-ups take care of the children while the children’s parents go to work, which makes “Kindergarten” a perfectly suitable name for the building. But all the small things make a huge difference, and significant differences are created by silent things.

I have seen, been in touch, played, talked to many 4 to 5-year-old Vietnamese Children, I have visited many Kindergarten, and the experiences with the kid always remind me of my past childhood. Nevertheless, nowhere was quite like the Child Development Center. I was amazed, worried and amused when I saw kids holding hands with their “buddies,” in a row silently following their teachers, trying their best to put on their jackets and shocks themselves, calmly heading to the playground as their faces lightened up with excitement. Can you believe that? One and another, each of them brought me from this surprise to another surprise, endlessly; the more time I spent with them, the more I felt like I could be one of them – to be a child again, without much to think about.

And the boy laid down on the grass, his eyes gazed at the blue sky. Free, and undisturbed.

With two racks, girls picking up a small mountain of fallen leaves on the ground. Yellow, Orange, Red, Light. They combined, and they mingled, and they shone like nothing else. I would never forget a single detail about the children. Brown, Purple, Green, Ground. I was happier than with anybody else. Blue, Tan, White, Sky. I was counting the rainbow in their eyes and hearing millions of bells ringing through their laughter.

And then my little Batman told me that I am wearing his favourite colour. Something changed when he said that. I remembered him having been distant to me, and when I asked if he missed me, he insisted on not knowing who I was. I told him if he still kept the Hulk mask I made with him last Friday, and he said it was too tight to wear. I managed to stop before actually asking him: “Did you throw it away?”. But here he was, saying that I am wearing his favourite colour. Not “What a cute jacket!”, neither it was “It looks good on you”, but still, how remarkable it was, the exclamation.

When I was there swinging the children around in my hands, letting them put me in their “Baby’s jail,” pretending like I was a bad guy trying to catch those stealing my cage’s keys, for a moment, I thought to myself: You are a real bad girl, Linh.

A selfish girl.

A girl was so lonely that she started to seek the warmth and serenity in the innocent children. A girl wishing she could have had more when she was still a kid. A girl kept telling the child that she adored their pink jacket, their rosy bow because those make them look like princesses, just because no one ever said to her that way. A girl still remembered when she had her very first doll. A girl kept looking for the most silent boy in the class to make sure he had found his jacket and put it on before going outside.

Put on your jacket, find your friends, drink water, eat your healthy snack, go to sleep, wash your hands,… Studying abroad have taught me one thing, and that thing is to love myself. First and foremost.

 

Today is a sunny Sunday, and it is so beautiful that I bet you cannot find anything more beautiful than that.

A schlock of Caricature thing.

Honestly, sometimes I do irrationally ridiculous things

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Mawkish Raconteur.

but none ever questioned that

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Exemption

’cause they think I am a sincere little girl

with a small spunky moment of time

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Obliteration

Pharisaic, self-righteous all the time, people are

obsessed with their sickening sanctimonious smile

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Silent Poltergeist

deads then reincarnated

in lust with rotten souls.

A pool concierge

dreams of chimerical girls

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Omniscience

But I

completely honest

all the time.

 

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Green everywhere

 

-T   I   R   E   D   O   F   T   H   I   S-

 

 

 

 

Augustus’s Beautiful Sounds.

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

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The houses are raining in my town

 

 

To August!

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…

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_._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.

Even worse,

Fell for it.

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.

 

Sincerely,

June

P/s: There were some corners that you might want to drop by. For Heaven’s Sake! You must.

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Fake Address.

私の心を盗んだ少年がいました。

永遠に消える前に、彼は私を去った。

偽の住所。

There was a boy who stole my heart.
Before he disappears forever, he left me.
Fake address.

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Tokyo Inn

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あなたの顔

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私の声が聞こえますか?

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これが私の家です。

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0211200

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あなたのシャツ

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ダイキに!

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海の町

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友達になろう。

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アドレスが正しくありません。

If,

Again

I have a chance to meet,

there is so much I want to ask

and so much I want to tell.

-To Daiki-

 

 

April table craddle

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.