I'm writing amid the chirping of birds that flutter in the moist air of March. As I sit on a bench in my made-in-China and Japanese-designed sweater, I feel like a troubled monk. My senses are all intact—I can see, hear and speak as well as breathe—all my senses are still functioning. But what isn't working?

Functioning. As a living thing, we do not lose our capability to function. The butterflies flap their wings, birds sing with their vocal cords, insects move with their wiggly legs...everything works well. Or should I say that all things are content with their natural purpose? But does the Sun radiate because someone asked it to or does the cat sleep because she wants to excel at her game?

I looked up the definition of apple in a dictionary for no apparent reason:


noun the round fruit of a tree of the rose family, which typically has thin green or red skin and crisp flesh.

The Flowering Apple Tree (1912) by Mondrian

It has always puzzled me, how can we categorise an artist if he/she does not conform to the functional and typical, or the Dictionary? Recently, I've been thinking about how to balance the stress of working in an office with the anxiety of becoming a professional artist. It's been a while since I've painted, and I'm also losing the sense of being a non-functional human being in my old days.

Yet I'm not depressed at all. What I'm going through now is just a chapter with the crystal merchant in The Alchemist. I must pursue and carry on.

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Earth, the place I was born Round as oranges Horizon sharp as a grass blade I sit in front of a rectangular window Starring at the flurry of sunlight pouring Over white tiles of squares My cat comes a

I was trained to care and not to care about certain things in the world And they call that —knowledge.