The Blog of Laughter and Forgetting

Chanting. But wonderfully the music is revolving, splashing within and outside. A tension that perpetuates like a trekking through forest. From far and suddenly from near a trace of light. The leaves as you may wish, keep dancing like water dances when a young river hugs rocks facing its way. I am not the audience. I am not the performer. I am the eyes of the audience and lips of the performer. You are the secret music that controls my senses. Chanting. You occupy my mind and body like air occupies a flute. And dissolved into your whims I play. You know more. I raise more. You wonder about your smell that ancient graphics absorbs and becomes a code of whisper. I can’t be chained and yet I am. I can’t be frozen so you look outside of the cloud. I can’t be compact so you secretly desire. I am not the audience. I am not the performer. I am the eyes of the audience and lips of the performer. Play relentlessly the Pipa. That calls me. Play indomitably the flute. That enervates ...

The moon was beyond the cloud Breeze on the front Lamps flared in the darkness, roaming Like the patrol man at the cross. Blue was no longer gloomy, but a call of romance Yellow was not boredom, but attraction Purple not in vain but amorous, Even white was so vivid then. Suddenly I found all the edge of sky orange! Shadow of the bridge hallucinating two amrs My songs became a small bamboo basket, Or a girl on the boat. My hand pressed in yours became warmer and tender... Your fragrance devided in dream and reality. Voice was gradually turning from 40 db to 10 db, finally whisper.. (This poem is written by Carol. I didn't find any better painting to describe my feeling) Sandip