ome paintings were powerful, while others were so delicate and gentle that I couldn’t believe a man painted them. There seemed to be a balance between masculinity and femininity, between yin and yang, and I found myself meditating on the paintings in a mysterious, otherworldly space.
The wind is brown. I wonder where the wind comes from and where will the wind go.
There was almost no one else walking through the dark midnight streets. I felt like a small fragment of his passion—his flame—had transferred to me, and was quietly glowing inside. As the night breeze passed through my body, it felt cool and comforting.
During the moments I found challenging, thoughts arose that I was told were my true, suppressed consciousness. Accepting those thoughts made me feel lighter again, and now I feel more optimistic.
