When the pen stops bleeding

Often, I fall asleep on a plateau and wake up at the bottom of a deep canyon.

It's coming to a decade since I last came to this virtual plain, erected four poles, threw some hay over as the roof and built a hideout for myself. In the early days before the advent of weblogs, I was shifting from place to place, focusing more on the exterior of the hut than the interior. I enjoyed designing and experimenting with html, I remember the good old days of free web hosting with no ads.

The second half of my journey was spent here, after weblogs became the more convenient choice. If you have camped with me long enough, you will remember the small television screen, with a few functional buttons and tiny fonts. "Split screen sadness" was the last and the longest layout, before I got lazy and adopted one of the host's. The focus gradually shifted to the interiors, filling up the space with pages of scribblings instead. The house provided me with a safe avenue to express myself, and was occasionally used as a medium to communicate with those whom I hold dear in my heart.

So ten years have gone, an undulating ten years. The dark clouds are still parked outside. I don't know why they have to follow me like shadows, always sticking to my feet. When the light is above, they shrink to a small silhouette. When the lightsource is far, they elongate to become bigger than me. Sometimes they get the better of me. On such days, you may find me caught beneath a landslide because the rain came unpredictably, dragging the soil down along with it.

But anyhow, this is just an imagery that I've painted in a moment of self-indulgence. This is a piece of prose I've written in a moment of forgetfulness. This is a signpost, like a cross that you mark on the trees when you're lost in the forest to remind you where you have come from.

I don't know when I can bring myself to write here again. My pen must stop bleeding.

Do not be afraid, love. The Lord is with you, and with me.