The night is so calm. I can only hear the screeching sound of grasshoppers and my rabbit nibbling her last carrot. I am sitting in the backyard, underneath the big mango tree that is delivering its last batch harvest for the year. From in between its branches, I can peep the moon in a funny shape. Beaming its light in the highly polluted vague sky of the city.
Nighttime is magical. It is when all the toys in Nutcracker came alive. It is when Cinderella’s golden carriage turned into pumpkin. It is when people dancing or running in their dreams. The night has its own magical language to unveil what was hidden during the sun.
I am not a fan boy of zombie. Or Dracula. Or vampires. I am a fan boy of the moon. I am amazed of her devotion in watching people from above. She painted people’s character on the endless landscape of night sky. She goes everywhere we go. She is such a beauty.
I love nighttime. For me, nighttime is the best time to write. Just like tonight. My fingers are dancing on the keyboard and are trying to avoid the cursor to move backward. It has been a while since I last wrote. Not because I don’t have things to ponder, in contrary, there are too much things going on inside me. You know, those come and go thoughts that leave traces you cannot erase.
I am thinking about time. How it flies when we look at our children. How we want to get back when we see our parents. How it rolls up when we see people in our shoes and we will be on theirs the next time we never know. How it can be so expensive yet we need to chunk the time and give it to different occasion everyday (specially for a working mom). How we wish the time could wait. How we wish the time could forgive rather than forget.
Nighttime, and the clock busily ticking; knitting codes of what would be offered by daytime.