It was a strange night all right, I said to myself while waiting for the bus taking me home. Pedestrians wore more cloths on, as autumn nights are usually quite chill. But I only had a short sleeved T-shirt on, because my body was very warm, if not feeling too hot. The lights were reddish, road noises had increased the sentimentality of falling leaves. The winds joined this alternative symphony, which partially just echoed in my mind and never truly existed in the external world. I was think poetically and prosaically. Autumn is such a season, happiness and sorrow could join duet seamlessly. Just like green grass and yelllow leaves, harmoniously depicted a great scene of landscape, romantic and peaceful at the same time. Contradicting, is it not?
I started to question myself, why do I wanted to write fiction again after nearly 20 year searching for poetry. According to literary convention, fiction has been considered less graceful than poem. Did this transition of mind mean that finally I submitted myself regardless my pride to the commonplace? Was I being condescending again, as even having the notion of being humble? Anti discrimination equals to inequality.
On the bus, I was listening to music, a song that described a lover chasing up a distant relationship that led to nowhere. I could really shed a tear or two. Not just because my sympathy toward unfruitful love, but also the uncertainty of the future terrified me greatly. What were you afraid of? I asked myself. And to be honest with my soul, here is my answer: passion and indifference. Again, another set of oppositions.
