Paths, Trees, and Flowers

When the wanderer woke up from his pursuit of lights and dreams, what he saw was the shining moon with twinkling starts. What he spied was the apartment covered by the moonlight, in which purity could be found. And he looked out from the window, and he discovered a road from not afar. And the man went down the house, in search of the road; and the man went along the road, in search of the sun. And the man walked, and the man ran, and the man took out his strength to fulfill the pursuit of the sunrise that would inevitably come to exist.

— The Recollection

That the anger has come from nowhere and will recede in nowhere.

— The Reconciliation

And the firmament speaks to him, ‘Go, my friend! Shall you not stay for long! Wear up the hallowed robes of white, And set out for your journey, where there will be many scenes, where there will be many inspirations.’

And the wiseman replies to the firmament, ‘Bless you, my friend! You are the firmament of the clouds, the light of stars. You are the leader among many sages, showing me the path to knowing. Wherever I step on, the sky lights bright, of azure and blue, cleared, or clouded. And I will find my journey, upon which I will ascend; my soul will ascend.’

— And the Clouds Dissipated

Imageries of summer; what are they? Not merely the winds and the warmth; more have been aroused from it. It has evoked a particular feeling of my own, from my past, five years ago. It was then when I strolled across the streets under yellowish lights and swinged willows, at somewhere southern. Yes… for a night walk, at roads in the south. And it contained much of my happiness and delight, much of remembrance and rejoice. Only through the means of such could it be once again retrieved. Nevertheless, they are lost, no longer can be revived.

— Night Walk Talk

I remember that once I saw the roses spreading across the red walls; that once the white bricks emerged within my vision. And the once familiar streets have fallen deep within the subconsciousness, leaving traces of novelty and imagination; that the empty street was visited by no one, dwelled the no one; that the streets were the projections from the forthcoming afar. And the streets have become the residence of mine; and I no longer recognized the streets.

— Another Meditation

Has he come to the lake surrounded by willows. As if the aqua-blue canvas, yet the transparent mirror, the lake lay upon, waiting for its visitors. Waving were the willows, greeting their guests, yet weeping, as if telling those that were forgotten. Rich grasslands ended upon the verging of the bank, leaving the barren stones barricading the shore. Lifeless were they, yet cultivated water and the tiny sprouts. Yet all but the silence could be heard, as if the paradise of meditation, devoid of any distractions. And yes, the wiseman has arrived, sitting by the soilless reefs. As if cut up any connections with the outer world, as if borne within the inner zone of mind, has he shut his vision, leaving the imagination to travel afar. Yet once more has he travelled, through his mind, through his vision, above the lake of opportunity, the lake of meditation.

— The Two Dreams

For sure, that the shard of my soul has resided within for long; I lived here once. So as the many pasts that recurred; I lived in them, too.

— Another Walk

Sadness has blinded your vision; do not bewitched by the fearing roar. You yourself has been torn asunder, of the sanity that preserved or lost. Open your eyes, my friend, your real eyes. Behold the where that stretches afar and the branches of leaves along. Despite that too many scenes you have witnessed, do not be deceived upon.

— Before the Storm

Magnificence would not satisfy, as the vast scenes astounded all the mortal ones. My friend, my mind is enlightened, my soul purified. And I, before the great spectacle of the sky, shall ascend.

— Amidst the Storm

We have stepped so far; we have seen so much. Look over where we stand, my friend: it shall no longer be the hesitation over our aspirations, nor the fear of pursuit. Those have sunk into the past; let us embrace toward the beyond. That the plains hold two wisemen who talked throughout the journey, they said the dreams, and they mentioned the journeys — a thousand journeys covered with lights. The wind seldom blows, cool winds over the plains, those perceived upon the British Isles.

— After the Storm

My friend, you have found the residence of your consciousness, where you lay down and rest within. So has it been the meaning of meditation: all but to find the tranquil state of mind. A visit of meditation, indeed, it is. Bless you, me, and the many sights we have seen.

— A Visit of Meditation

I have seen much upon my dream, my friend. Should I refer to it as an ascension, an ascension toward the night skies. I dreamed of a tower of glass, of the color of green and cyan, of red and blue. I saw grayish mountains afar tinted by the darkish green that covered all. Well was the full moon hanging behind, darkened clouds, dimmed mists surrounded.

— Rising Moon

I see. I see roses growing from the crack of these rocks, a resurgence of life. I feel myself greeted by the aroma of blossoms of crimson red, whose brightness renders this place a memorable bit of vibrancy, as if small dots drip onto the canvas of blank. Well have the fog of whiteness receded its pace — let the sky of azure reveal its elegance.

— I Woke Up in Ruins. Let Roses Grow.

I have stepped so far, but by what traces? Footprints eroded with dirt and sand, paths overgrown by grasses and weeds, pasts untouched. Alas, impatient I was, so ignorant. In a haste of vision, at the expense of lost times; those were the days where I should have stayed for longer than a brief, lest they would be erased from my mind. Now I’m but a paralyzed loner who stands in reminiscence of his misted past.

— Golden

It still rained hard. Clouds gathered for once more, elevating the depressive nature of the weather into a new height. So did raindrop shape as arrows and blades that penetrated through the man’s defenseless skin, inwards. His bones. His flesh. His soul. Mourning, he gradually stepped away from the shattered cloth. Much to his unawareness, he never returned to where he entered the park. What he believed to be the straight, unchanged path was in fact curled and distorted. So did he become.

…

Among the many gray rocks that stood in the sanctuary, one reads:

Incessant rain, > Mourning in vain, > Unnoticed pain.

— Distorted

By the greatness of endless light, let the shadows of my soul be obliterated, thus they shall no longer remain. Alas, I have come across the garden, of traces of aspirations in the lost time. I now stand by the ending of the sight once casted, yet I see nothing but void, vacuum, nonexistence. I have come over lands and mountains; I have come back, revisiting. Were you still here waiting, for my return?

— Nightwalker’s Mind

Either the Celebration or the journeys that follow, they shall belong to the tales of mind. And now I stand upon the crossroad of time, the intersection of the past and the forthcoming. But neither of the two paths will I choose to take, and thus will the decision be held on my own. I am the wanderer; I am the sailor. The sailboat is yet pushed by the water, but for this time on a vast ocean, where bears the openness of meditation.

— The Celebration

Having been planning for the anniversary for a long time, I ended up coming up with nothing. There were a lot of contents being developed: a short documentary (some sort of visual representation of the conversations), a special update (just as what I did for the last time), or a regular update that works as a conclusion. Unfortunately, none of them have come into realization – scrapped, unachieved. A regular update was written a few days ago but is far from linking with the old series. The reason was but my hesitance; I had a hard time deciding what to do, and time silently passed away, leaving me no more chances to decide.

It didn’t take much, however, for me to realize that there needs no marker for the anniversary; the time is enough to witness. By the name of conversation, I decided to work with a new series that documents my inner thoughts, for readers and for me. The conversation started with a compilation of dialogues throughout the beginning of this year, before later becoming a documentation of each of my travelling. Much of the talks were taken place in my mind, with others being reconstructed and reimagined. They together comprised all the pieces of the conversation.

A change in the vibe of the styles occurred at the beginning of June: whereas the pieces used to be a formal dialogue, they now represent a documentation of journeys and trips. The change did not come out of coincidence; I have had such intention for long. The way of writing then remained unchanged much as what it is now.

That would be all about the anniversary. It was supposed to be as significant, but significance is never designed to become. The title of this page is ‘Paths, Trees, and Flowers,’ which is also the title of a paper in graph theory I read a few days ago. Those words are terms of graph theory, but will be enough to conclude what this site has come so far for a year. That is to say: paths of trees and flowers, it is.