My first memory is of the wind. Green light, cut through with gold, swayed above me as I lay in a stroller. Then—something unseen brushed my cheek. Not my mother’s hand, but gentler, everywhere, stirring both skin and soul. From that moment, I knew the world had entered me, and I had entered the world.

In truth, I have not moved, nor have the trees left their place. What I heard was also what I did not hear.

It had been raining for days. The waters of the Xin River had risen past the steps. I picked up my film camera and took my younger sister to the park. Through the viewfinder, I watched her move in the sunlight, pressing the shutter with quiet satisfaction—until I discovered the camera held no roll at all. All those perfect moments existed only in the sound of the clicks, disappearing with each imagined frame.

Now drifting inward, then outward again—I am neither on the clouds, nor on the ground. I hover in the uncertain air, forever unmoored, forever homeless.

A poetic reflection on the nature of self and identity, exploring the boundaries between being and non-being, silence and expression.

Tonight's dinner devours the memories of yesterday. Betelgeuse and the sea take root in my heart. And so, my body—a shimmer of wave-born foam, breathing then falling still—life in rhythm.