I am reading stories of other people's lives and i thought.. how wonderful, how interesting, how beautiful, how sad. Sometimes their lives mirrored my own and i can feel the pinch of memories passed. Other times, i looked on, a stranger in another world of different sensations and colours. I drift in and out of these little circles of other people's memories and experiences, alternating between standing beside the eye of the storm and looking from far yonder. Drawn to some and alienated by others.

What stories do i have to tell of my own life? How many would drift into my circle and linger there without me knowing? How many would watch from afar, uncomprehending of my circle of colours and sensations?

I grew a garden once, filled with different smells, tastes, textures and colours. Some colours had bedazzled me. Some smells had made me puke. Thorns had pricked my fingers and petals had cushioned my falls. Not all flowers and thorns were of my own devices. Some are carefully cultivated in the greenhouse. But I have also planted some seeds that i have no recollection of planting. Ghostly figures had tried to pick one or two blooms for their own. Presences that, at time i was conscious of, other times not. Some i let in on my own, others drifted in by themselves.

I wished i have words to express all i'm feeling.