Train is an interesting, amazing thing. Never thought I will be sitting on a train (CalTrain) which brought me a feeling of riding train in China.
I haven't expected to see your messages, because I think it is the right thing to do that I should disappear from your life entirely. Watching a movie the other night, a line struck me — a woman said she hates a man, that she is now 39, and have not married. I don't want you to be like that. I want you to move on your life, because you have so much ahead of you. Don't waste time with me. Don't. Everyone has a life to live, live yours, experience yours. I feel like a parent who is watching over his child, knowing all too well what is ahead of him, yet have to refrain from directing his life — if it were a fall, I could only be there when he falls, and pull him out if I am able to. So that's how I feel, watching the Californian sun zooming by my window. Out there, it is a crowded town with homes, cars, trees, grasses, mountain at remote background. But they are just passing by; you, stayed.
Walking on the street the other night, I was thinking to myself, just how many women I have fallen in love with in my life? Surprisingly, there have been quite a few. So what does it mean? Does it mean that human, or male, is capable of (or rather, instintly will) loving quite a few? Each episode was real. I tried to think which one is the one I _love the most, the one who left a dent on my soul, whereas others who have been loved, but moved on? Sometime I picture lying in death bed, which one of them I would want to see the most, the one whom I want to know she is doing well, will be ok, and regretfully I now have to leave first?
Each breakup was a tough one. They all felt the end of the world. I know some have now faded in memory whose name and smile hardly pass through my mind anymore. Then there are one and two, whose voice and figure linger on, peeked from deep inside as often as they have always been, fresh, close, vivid, real.
So, how many can one love in a life? many, perhaps. Then there is one, whose shadow takes over all of them. Is she the true love? or just a wound never closed? or, perhaps, as perfect as a love, can be?
— by Feng Xia