In a, meditative, state, kept locked inside, with the humidity, and heat, rising up, but still, staying, calm, and collected here, translated…
as this is currently happening in the outside world…
The wind rumbled, this land has something to state, stepped through the boundaries of the hearts, found, that message from deep within. The lichens grow by the patches by the windowsills, the potted bamboo breathed in and out by the day, yet, the leaves turned yellow from green, stating to all, how life doesn’t enter this place, to the sixth floor—this tin-roofed tuna can add on. Inside the tin can, before the desk, there was a window, looking out, you’d see the place, cut in half by two apartments, the wind can’t enter; looking forward and down, there’s the sights of the Jingemei Creek, rousing up that enormous humidity, that stuffed up the body, the heart, the mind, gotten into the bones and the flesh, the cracks on the walls, between, the bricks, bringing about the sense of fatigue, that laziness too, the tracks of rust, the wastedness. Nothing to do in the afternoons here, fallen limp on the chair, gazing out the windows, at the sights, saw the thick dark clouds, coming down from the distant skies of summertime, but the sun, shone on everything, chasing the gloomy away. Allowing the sunshine to cover me up, even the shadows in that darkened corner here, felt, that it’s, taken care of. Not lonely, with the leaves, the humidity, with the wind in the chairs, patting the heated up tin lunch box gently, with the reflections of the lights from the dust inside, just like me, unafraid, silent, just, listening, in.
And so, there’s, that stillness here, of how the individual is, sitting quite, just, watching, the wind blow by her/him, s/he is, unaffected by what’s going on outside of her/his own physical presence, as s/he’s found that quiet place on the inside, of her/his own, mind.
this is how the writer feels, on the inside…
