It must have just rained because the ground is still wet.
The street is dark, and the air is cold. I walk down the street alone
and I realize I did not speak a word during the day.
When I walk out of the train at Queens Borough Plaza station,
the wind blows into my body. I stand on the platform and wait for another train.
An old man shrinks in a ragged coat and makes a thorough search through the trash.
Disinterested bystanders would ignore him or look at him without compassion.
I smell poverty, struggle and desolation in the wet air.
The wind keeps blowing, I think I am going to fly away with it.
The sky is really dark. I stare at the lights that are far away.
Some remembered feelings come back to me,
as though I am stepping back in time and am still in my hometown.
It is also at night. I am with some friends on the street and look for a place to eat.
When I ride my bike home, I can see the lights shining from people’s windows
and smell the freshness of the growing rice.
The warmth of friendship still fills my heart,
and I know that someone in my house is waiting for me to get home.
The train has not come yet. I pull up the zipper of my jacket
because I suddenly feel cold and alone.
I feel as if something in my life has gone forever and I am not young anymore.
I feel more and more that I am a foreigner in this place.
An unfamiliar sensation wants me to go home.
I get off the train. It is eleven o’clock. My mother is not home now.
She went back to my hometown last night. It seems that nothing has changed at all
because it is quiet as usual.
But when I enter the apartment I immediately feel that there is something missing.
I don’t know what it is. Everyone has already gone to sleep.
No one is waiting for me anymore.
I know my mother is not home, but I don’t understand why I still enter her room
to make sure that she is really not there.
I make myself something to eat and then turn off all the lights and listen to
the music that I just turned on.
I feel that the night belongs to me and I belong to the loneliness.
This is the first time in my life that my mother is not with me.
Darkness is mysterious. Night makes me think a lot and feel sensitive about things.
I look out the window; the street is quiet. Even though it is dark outside.
I can see things clearly because I start to see through the darkness,
and I think of many things that I’ve never thought of before.
Then I sit down and start to write and write... ...
The wind is still blowing outside. I think I hear a night song in the wind.
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