"I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart: I am, I am, I am." — Sylvia Plath
I am thinking about the weight of beginnings. Monday mornings always feel like a promise and a threat wrapped in one. Back then, we used to sit with coffee, mapping out the future as if we could control it with bullet points. Now, I realize the future is a wild animal—you can't tame it, you can only learn to ride it.
My heart is a tangle of "want to" and "have to." The tasks pile up—emails, code, obligations—building a wall between who I am and who I want to be. I apologize for being indifferent lately. It’s not a lack of love; it’s a surplus of noise. I am trying to find the frequency where we used to talk, before the static took over.
We are sold this lie that ambition is purely fuel. It's not. It's also a heavy coat that gets soaked in the rain. I look at my to-do list and see a graveyard of moments I won't have. "Build this," "Launch that," "Optimize everything." In our obsession with optimization, we optimize away the messiness that makes life interesting. I miss the times when my mind was confused but my heart was light.
Saigon rain is not a weather event; it is a structural force. It doesn't just fall; it assaults the earth. The alleys flood, turning motorcycles into boats. I used to hate it. I was the "playboy afraid of getting wet," dodging drops like they were bullets. Now, I see the beauty in the deluge.
The rain forces the city to stop. It forces the frantic commerce to pause under awnings. Strangers stand shoulder to shoulder, waiting for the sky to empty itself. There is a geometry to it—the diagonal slash of water against the bus window, the circular ripples in the flooded street. It washes the dust off the soul.
It’s easy to love a country for its postcards. It’s harder to love it for its contradictions. Vietnam is the smell of jasmine and exhaust fumes. It is the sound of a temple bell ringing over the roar of a million engines. It is the red flag snapping in the wind and the green moss growing on ancient walls.
I love this place not because it is perfect, but because it is resilient. It has survived wars, floods, and history itself. To be Vietnamese is to carry that resilience in your blood. It is to know that no matter how high the water rises, we will find a way to keep dry.
Yesterday, the ideas didn't come. I sat in my room, staring at the ceiling fan cutting through the stagnant air. The sky outside turned a bruised purple, brewing a storm. In that moment, I felt a profound aloneness. Not loneliness, but aloneness.
We spend so much time projecting ourselves outward—on social media, in meetings, in relationships. We rarely invite ourselves in. I realized I think about "users" and "audiences" more than I think about the stranger in the mirror. The storm broke, and the rushing water sounded like applause for my silence.
What is bringing you joy today? Is it the big win, or the small mercy? I hope it is the small thing. The cold coffee. The break in the clouds. The song you forgot you loved. Because the big things are rare, but the small things are everywhere. If you can't find joy in the texture of the mundane, you will starve in the banquet of life.
Keep wandering. Keep thinking. Notes to self, end of transmission.
Tell me. Then let's play a familiar piece of music. Now only music remains to connect us; in these moments, my heart feels as if joy is spreading through it. Since that day, I try to listen to old songs again, then silently think of you.
Music often brings me energy from within. But looking at how you perceive it, I often see a sedimentation within it.
Suddenly, I see you cry. On rainy days, you often tell so many things; your inner self looks fragile, but those tears are harder than gravel.
Well, so be it—I think, hastily wiping my hand. Hey, have you ever seen me cry?
"In my class, there are only 19 guys sitting around thinking of wishes. So a sentence from someone must be worth two, right...
Yesterday I intended to write that sentence to lead into a truly good flow of writing. Actually, I couldn't think of any wish better than that opening.
If I wanted to write something so cliché, perhaps it would be better to let you guys hear it together?
Anyway,
The love received on this day is only a part of everything. Women always deserve all those things. When I suddenly realized I didn't have many opportunities left, I only wanted to thank every moment.
Wishing everyone to always achieve their dreams. Hope we will have much joy together.
A heart, naked yet generous.
I sink into each line of music. It is rare to touch emotion in such a way.
Because there remains a melody that touches the heart. A piece of music often creates so many resonances in each person, but my emotions usually don't change much.
Actually, not many works depict this life in a more exquisite way than that. I am a hunter seeking to catch emotions. In me, they emerge from lines of prose, choruses, and lyrics, breathing into every beat and creeping into reason. So my reason is not made of stone.
Perhaps emotion needs to come from love. A normal person knows how much to vibrate with their own love, don't they? Vibrating with a loved one, with the scenery of clouds and sky, with a flower bud spotted with dew suddenly blooming, with a young bird suddenly leaving its step—which we view as our own soul.
Without love, he is just like an animal.
But emotion needs to come from this reality. Emotion flows into art, and indeed should return to its source. I cherish every fellow human and treasure them.
I truly want to immerse myself in this stream of life and smile happily.
"I like walking in the rain so no one sees I am crying."
People often think the rain will bring them quietness, sorrow, or simply an occasion to live truly with their emotions, things which are daily hidden by a busy life. Many people hate the rain because they don't want to be weak.
Actually, do rains often bring that feeling of happiness? Rain in the quiet night is sad to the point of fear.
I allowed myself to stand before that house in the rain, pulling the door shut with a slam. Walking briskly in the flying mist, only knowing to look at passersby with a softly smiling lip; the heart grows heavier.
A day with not much joy left. Returning home with the sadness still left in that corner of the house. The tree branch no longer has much vitality because it lacks human warmth. The table surface is covered in dust.
Life still has many thorns, but if I have already had 17 years of life with those sorrows, then having one more day is still worth something.
I silently embrace my heart. Should those boastful ones with frozen souls stand in this rain to see this reality as if seeing a mirror placed somewhere?
Give me back my emotions.
A long road, with a bit of pride.
100 days or 3 months and 10 days, is just like 100 long running steps; I suddenly realize that amount of time in my life is as long as a summer. Suddenly thinking about what I have achieved. If I had to look back, perhaps I was a little afraid.
I am not clear about the purposes when I started writing. Those days I wrote for myself, but my life capital and bravery were not actually much. The satirical parts usually have to be written very well. Because in real life I have so many contained feelings. In there is me, is you, and the scenery of people. Let's call it a semi-diary. Yes, writing a lot helps me become more subtle.
Only much later did inspiration find me to help me complete a good post. From this moment to the final night, 35 days remain. The future me is now here putting pen to paper to perfect everything. If I still have a dream, remember I still have up to 3 final hours.
I love 100 days the way I love age 17.
In the upcoming half page of A4, I intend to talk about the long period of time that has just passed, along with the thing you are holding in your hand. I want to write in a way sufficient so you cannot be angry.
My life is interesting like this, you see: in lonely moments there is still joy, and the most difficult times have so many intense emotions. Those are the rare moments of loving oneself. But it is truly impossible to say I do not need you in this moment.
Even so, life does not change.
I am still here and remembering forever. Stories good or not good are all as long as the way we have sat waiting for 6 months or more. Those stories, generally speaking, are nothing positive; if there was someone else there to make expressing emotions easier, I surely would rarely be upset anymore.
In fact, I don't think the way I acted like that was the best way to behave. But that is not important. But whether yes or no, I am also still here myself.
In fact, during those times, it was hard to find someone to help me walk. One reason is truly not enough. More reasons are truly long. So to be easy to understand, I only want to write briefly and not explain.
The very long period just past brought so many things that defeated me. Many things are truly not easily solved just by silence and letting it pass. Frustrated inside, I didn't have too much of a mood.
Thank you for everything—there are tangible things like the shirt, but also things truly priceless like the way you cared for me or tolerated me for a long time. At first, I wanted to thank you for the truly great trust and love. Later on, I saw it was harder to find.
I chose silence because I had many feelings. Silence is usually easy to see, but perhaps it is not the best way.
It depends on the moment.
Now, silence itself is bringing everything you are holding in your hand. If you refuse to open it, perhaps these written lines are also superfluous.
Be friends.
See you in the nearest time. See you around the afternoon of the first, to call each other; I remember having a year, and now expecting the same.
Warm regards.