Hello, Dongwon

Each time I see your pictures
I am made to wonder
If your sky is always this pink
As the four frames allow sight;
Pink skies and golden crescent moon
Twins inseparable in your art,
What do they stand for you,
Who embosses their permanance?

I watch the sky too,
Awed by the magnificence
Of the Creator’s stroke
By the speech of His brushes;
Each sky speaks differently
But lend me dreams to chase,
Reminding of the brevity
Of all things beneath its expanse.

With your endless pink skies
And charming golden moons,
I never cease but wonder
How palette of colours speak
To each his own,
To each artist his own tone,
To each dreamer his own desire,
To each mortal man his immortality.

Do visit the inspiration of the poem:

https://instagram.com/hello_dongwon?igshid=1rpgyvavhyg1h

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The Crash pt. I

It is pitch black. The air suffocates.
The sound of the engine has stopped.
It is eerily silent; no, there are voices coming from afar. The darkness overwhelms.

Where am I? Where are the others? What has happened?

The warmth of the night air seems to breathe in through the neck, crawling its way down the chest and to the feet that felt numbed. The front light of the vehicle is fixated at a brown object that looks like a beaten-up pulp.

Perhaps we had ran off the road and hit a tree.
How far are we from the main road? Is the tree before us blocking our fall further? Can I get out of the vehicle?

I try to move in the darkness. My neck is sore. As I sit up, I am aware of thick, warm fluid flowing down from the left side of my head. At the same time, I can feel the woman sitting beside me turn towards me.

So I’ve hit my head somewhere.

The smell of my warm blood fills my nose which leads me to the realization that my nostrills are caked dry. Without another thought, I dig my little finger inside my right nostril.
“Are you awake?” my fellow passenger asks me, a note of worry in her high pitched voice. I turn to her, finger still in the nostril. There is a look of horror in her eyes as we face each other.

Oh. I’m more hurt than I think I am…she looks scared of whatever she’s seeing.

I can hear the muffled sound of the girl at the back seat weeping in distress.

“Am I bleeding much?” I ask her, while looking at the wax my little finger has dug out from my nostril. The wax is broken into tiny scraps on the finger, and I realize that it is the crust of my congealed blood. As I speak, I can also smell my blood inside my mouth.

“Lie down, darling,” she says to me, moving sideways so I can have more space. She helps me lie down on the seat.

“I might have internal bleeding as well,” I tell her, as I make myself comfortable on the seat. “There’s blood in my mouth.”

“Let me see you,” says the girl at the back, leaning in from the back seat. I see the cut on the bridge of her nose, and as our eyes meet, I see her fear which makes me feel pity for her.

She’ll be having an ugly scar the rest of her life, poor girl.

“Oh, is she worse than me? Is she?” she begins to wail.

“Don’t worry, we’ll all be fine,” someone tells her.

I take a deep breath, listening. I try to put pieces of the night together but my mind isn’t working. I can hear a raspy breathing coming from the front seat and someone’s faint voice outside, saying, “No, she has woken up just now.”

Oh, I must’ve passed out for quite a time.

“Are you feeling better?” the woman beside me is asking someone. “I can breathe better, but I’m still stuck,” she is being replied to.

It’s the driver, he’s hurt as well.

“Where’s the vai passenger we picked up on the way?” someone from the back seat asks.

“That zawngsen ran off,” replies the driver. “Typical.”

I want to ask so many things, but I have no energy. My eyeballs feel dry as sand. The smell of my fresh blood is sickening. I dig my nostrils clean of congealed blood.

“Do you want to drink water?” someone asks me.

“No, there’s blood in her mouth. She might be bleeding inside,” someone else says.

I cough, and there’s a worried silence. “I’m fine. No blood spurting,” I report to whoever care. “I’d really like to drink water, though.”

“Best not to,” the driver says from the front seat, in a raspy voice.

“Best you don’t talk either,” I say to him, and the ridiculousness of our exchange make all of us break into laughter.

“Are you two going to argue, out of all of us here?” the woman beside me laughs.

“Let’s leave them behind to argue,” someone says, and we all laugh again.

“There are two sumos coming our way, they’re telling us to wait for them,” the same voice I had heard just a minute ago says, sounding much nearer now. “Might be another hour or two.”

The girl at the back seat breaks down again. “Why can’t it be sooner? I can’t wait for that long. I’m bleeding and I’m in pain.”

No one speaks. There’s silence for sometime till the driver speaks up. “There’s biscuits at the front if you’re hungry.”

“I’m just warm, not hungry,” someone replies him with.

“Ahhhh…..it was just a split second!” the driver sounds sorrowful.

“It’s okay,” the woman beside me comforts him, which is to little effect as the girl begins to wail again.

I ignore the irritation that creeps in my mind at her constant wailing. Her face is ruined forever, I tell myself.

The Crash pt. I

It is pitch black. The air suffocates.
The sound of the engine has stopped.
It is eerily silent; no, there are voices coming from afar. The darkness overwhelms.

Where am I? Where are the others? What has happened?

The warmth of the night air seems to breathe in through the neck, crawling its way down the chest and to the feet that felt numbed. The front light of the vehicle is fixated at a brown object that look like a beaten-up pulp.

Perhaps we had ran off the road and hit a tree.
How far are we from the main road? Is the tree before us blocking our fall further? Can I get out of the vehicle?

I try to move in the darkness. My neck is sore. As I sit up, I am aware of thick, warm fluid flowing down from the left side of my head. At the same time, I can feel the woman sitting beside me turn towards me.

So I’ve hit my head somewhere.

The smell of my warm blood fills my nose which leads me to the realization that my nostrills are caked dry. Without another thought, I dig my little finger inside my right nostril.
“Are you awake?” my fellow passenger asks me, a note of worry in her high pitched voice. I turn to her, finger still in the nostril. There is a look of horror in her eyes as we face each other.

Oh. I’m more hurt than I think I am…she looks scared of whatever she’s seeing.

I can hear the muffled sound of the girl at the back seat weeping in distress.

“Am I bleeding much?” I ask her, while looking at the wax my little finger has dug out from my nostril. The wax is broken into tiny scraps on the finger, and I realize that it is the crust of my congealed blood. As I speak, I can also smell my blood inside my mouth.

“Lie down, darling,” she says to me, moving sideways so I can have more space. She helps me lie down on the seat.

“I might have internal bleeding as well,” I tell her, as I make myself comfortable on the seat. “There’s blood in my mouth.”

“Let me see you,” says the girl at the back, leaning in from the back seat. I see the cut on the bridge of her nose, and as our eyes meet, I see her fear which makes me feel pity for her.

She’ll be having an ugly scar the rest of her life, poor girl.

“Oh, is she worse than me? Is she?” she begins to wail.

“Don’t worry, we’ll all be fine,” someone tells her.

I take a deep breath, listening. I try to put pieces of the night together but my mind isn’t working. I can hear a raspy breathing coming from the front seat and someone’s faint voice outside, saying, “No, she has woken up just now.”

Oh, I must’ve passed out for quite a time.

“Are you feeling better?” the woman beside me is asking someone. “I can breathe better, but I’m still stuck,” she is being replied to.

It’s the driver, he’s hurt as well.

“Where’s the vai passenger we picked up on the way?” someone from the back seat asks.

“That zawngsen ran off,” replies the driver. “Typical.”

I want to ask so many things, but I have no energy. My eyeballs feel dry as sand. The smell of my fresh blood is sickening. I dig my nostrils clean of congealed blood.

“Do you want to drink water?” someone asks me.

“No, there’s blood in her mouth. She might be bleeding inside,” someone else says.

I cough, and there’s a worried silence. “I’m fine. No blood spurting,” I report to whoever care. “I’d really like to drink water, though.”

“Best not to,” the driver says from the front seat, in a raspy voice.

“Best you don’t talk either,” I say to him, and the ridiculousness of our exchange make all of us break into laughter.

“Are you two going to argue, out of all of us here?” the woman beside me laughs.

“Let’s leave them behind to argue,” someone says, and we all laugh again.

“There are two sumos coming our way, they’re telling us to wait for them,” the same voice I had heard just a minute ago says, sounding much nearer now. “Might be another hour or two.”

The girl at the back seat breaks down again. “Why can’t it be sooner? I can’t wait for that long. I’m bleeding and I’m in pain.”

No one speaks. There’s silence for sometime till the driver speaks up. “There’s biscuits at the front if you’re hungry.”

“I’m just warm, not hungry,” someone replies him with.

“Ahhhh…..it was just a split second!” the driver sounds sorrowful.

“It’s okay,” the woman beside me comforts him, which is to little effect as the girl begins to wail again.

I ignore the irritation that creeps in my mind at her constant wailing. Her face is ruined forever, I tell myself.

The Crash pt. I

It is pitch black. The air suffocates.
The sound of the engine has stopped.
It is eerily silent; no, there are voices coming from afar. The darkness overwhelms.

Where am I? Where are the others? What has happened?

The warmth of the night air seems to breathe in through the neck, crawling its way down the chest and to the feet that felt numbed. The front light of the vehicle is fixated at a brown object that look like a beaten-up pulp.

Perhaps we had ran off the road and hit a tree.
How far are we from the main road? Is the tree before us blocking our fall further? Can I get out of the vehicle?

I try to move in the darkness. My neck is sore. As I sit up, I am aware of thick, warm fluid flowing down from the left side of my head. At the same time, I can feel the woman sitting beside me turn towards me.

So I’ve hit my head somewhere.

The smell of my warm blood fills my nose which leads me to the realization that my nostrills are caked dry. Without another thought, I dig my little finger inside my right nostril.
“Are you awake?” my fellow passenger asks me, a note of worry in her high pitched voice. I turn to her, finger still in the nostril. There is a look of horror in her eyes as we face each other.

Oh. I’m more hurt than I think I am…she looks scared of whatever she’s seeing.

I can hear the muffled sound of the girl at the back seat weeping in distress.

“Am I bleeding much?” I ask her, while looking at the wax my little finger has dug out from my nostril. The wax is broken into tiny scraps on the finger, and I realize that it is the crust of my congealed blood. As I speak, I can also smell my blood inside my mouth.

“Lie down, darling,” she says to me, moving sideways so I can have more space. She helps me lie down on the seat.

“I might have internal bleeding as well,” I tell her, as I make myself comfortable on the seat. “There’s blood in my mouth.”

“Let me see you,” says the girl at the back, leaning in from the back seat. I see the cut on the bridge of her nose, and as our eyes meet, I see her fear which makes me feel pity for her.

She’ll be having an ugly scar the rest of her life, poor girl.

“Oh, is she worse than me? Is she?” she begins to wail.

“Don’t worry, we’ll all be fine,” someone tells her.

I take a deep breath, listening. I try to put pieces of the night together but my mind isn’t working. I can hear a raspy breathing coming from the front seat and someone’s faint voice outside, saying, “No, she has woken up just now.”

Oh, I must’ve passed out for quite a time.

“Are you feeling better?” the woman beside me is asking someone. “I can breathe better, but I’m still stuck,” she is being replied to.

It’s the driver, he’s hurt as well.

“Where’s the vai passenger we picked up on the way?” someone from the back seat asks.

“That zawngsen ran off,” replies the driver. “Typical.”

I want to ask so many things, but I have no energy. My eyeballs feel dry as sand. The smell of my fresh blood is sickening. I dig my nostrils clean of congealed blood.

“Do you want to drink water?” someone asks me.

“No, there’s blood in her mouth. She might be bleeding inside,” someone else says.

I cough, and there’s a worried silence. “I’m fine. No blood spurting,” I report to whoever care. “I’d really like to drink water, though.”

“Best not to,” the driver says from the front seat, in a raspy voice.

“Best you don’t talk either,” I say to him, and the ridiculousness of our exchange make all of us break into laughter.

“Are you two going to argue, out of all of us here?” the woman beside me laughs.

“Let’s leave them behind to argue,” someone says, and we all laugh again.

“There are two sumos coming our way, they’re telling us to wait for them,” the same voice I had heard just a minute ago says, sounding much nearer now. “Might be another hour or two.”

The girl at the back seat breaks down again. “Why can’t it be sooner? I can’t wait for that long. I’m bleeding and I’m in pain.”

No one speaks. There’s silence for sometime till the driver speaks up. “There’s biscuits at the front if you’re hungry.”

“I’m just warm, not hungry,” someone replies him with.

“Ahhhh…..it was just a split second!” the driver sounds sorrowful.

“It’s okay,” the woman beside me comforts him, which is to little effect as the girl begins to wail again.

I ignore the irritation that creeps in my mind at her constant wailing. Her face is ruined forever, I tell myself.

Cheers!

Today at a small class of barely over thirty pupils I spoke about mental health and positivity. Prompted by the knowledge that my stint as a sub- teacher is almost over, I took liberty of the extra few minutes after the lessons to deliberate on things that have been close to my heart for sometime now.

I began with how important words are; how they can build or break and why choosing our words carefully is a must.

Then I proceeded to talk to them about survival; how, even when everything feels wrong we should never give up on life for once we are past that phase, we learn that life does go on. I talked a bit about myself; about the state that I had been in once and how low I had been during those years; how I’d felt worthless and devoid of hope but how, after all those bleak phases in life, things have changed for me. I told the class how happy I am now; how, despite letting go I’ve grown and am now at the place I’d never thought I would be.

And then the class did something I never expected.

They clapped for me.

At first, I was taken aback. Because it was totally out of the blue, I couldn’t comprehend what was taking place. The first thought that crossed my mind was: are they making fun of me? But then I looked at their faces. I could see that they weren’t.

But I didn’t know how to react; so my first instinct was to continue. I told them of my wish that none of them be where I had been in life, wished them well, and left the class.

It dawned on me only much later while walking homewards that what the class had done for me was the sweetest gesture that a class of students had ever done for me. The fact that they actually clapped at my survival story suddenly hit me hard.

Everybody’s survival story needs to be cheered on. Every survivor needs to be appreciated. Every story needs to be told.

I never will forget what had happened to me today. Someday this memory might grow old and allow for those young and eager faces to grow dim, but my heart will forever cherish them.

I dedicate this little write-up to the boys and girls of the Combined Elective Class. Little did I know that they would change my life this way. I hope somehow, I had changed theirs too.

Cheers to life!

Ka Hmingin Min Ko

Zirtirtu thlah chhungkuaa piang kan nih avangin kan chhungkaw inhmuhkhawmnaah hian zirtirna leh zirtir dan chungchang titi a tel lo thei lova. Chung atrang chuan aniang e, hming inhriatsak hlut zia hi ka rilruah a bet nghet hle a. Ka theih ang tawkin mi hming hriatsak hi ka tum thrin a; ka tum em vang a ni bawk ang chu, vawi tam tak mi hming koh sual ka nei tawh a, zak taka awm chang ka ngah tawh hle. Chu lam erawh kan sawi dawn lo.

Hei chen lei ka rah ve hnuah hming inhriat sak hlut zia hi a takin ka tawng ve a. A hretu in a ti hlu a ni e, ti dawn ila a sual thui lo khawp ang. Ka thrianpa pakhat chuan min sawi nep sak khawp a; “Hre lo chi pawh ni suh,” min tih sak a. A thusawi chuan dikna thui tak a nei tih hre mah ila, a lawmawm dan a ti nep chuang lo a ni.

Pathianni chawhnu a ni a; ruahmanna angin engkim a kal tluang a. Gospel Concert pawh a zo ta. Zah loh theihna zawng zawng sawm khawmin, stage-ah chuan kan mi sawmte chibai turin kan han lawn chho ve a. Ava han hrehawm tak em! Chibai chak si, hreh si khawvel kha!

Mahse he mihring hi a lo mak thei khawp a; Sam ziaktu in a lo sawi angin, hlauhawm tak leh mak taka siam ni ta réng chuan kan huphurh em em pawh min paltlang tir mai thrin a. A rei lem lo; chibai a ni mai. Mahse trum danga ngaihsante chibai laia eng ang chiaha kut nem leh nem lo nge a nih chu ka ngaihtuah hman lo. Rilruah a leng tawh lo a ni ber ang chu.

Chung hnua hruaitute nena thla la ho tura an intlar chu keini stage-a ding tawh lo tam tak zingah, ka hming ngei chuan min rawn ko ta:

“Sawmte, thla min lo lak sak thei em?”

Ngaihtuah let ringawt pawhin ka tha a la khur theiin ka hria.

Stage hmalamah chuan lo pheiin, a phone chu ka ban phakah min rawn pe a. Aih, tih theihna hun leh hmun a ni lo. Kha iphone kha a rit ve hrim hrim nge, a case dum kha rit zawk pawh ka hrethiam lo.

A phone number min petu leh min duhsaktute’n “Trang viau rawh aw,” an tih chu hnai lo tak a ni. Kaha se, a ni deuh top mai.

Kum in min chaldelh ve viau tawh aniang a, tha khur leh zam em em ka tawng khat ta viau. Mahse hemi ni hi chuan ka pianpui zia ang rengin ka tha a khur zawih zawih. Ava han hrehawm tak! Stage-ah an ding tlar thrap tawh a, ka lam en in an inring thrap tawh. Kei lah phone lek khur zawih zawih chu sawi loh, focus ka la adjust thei miah lo zui! A hrehawm pawh a ni tawh lo, khúk bo mai duhna khan min bual thlan hluah tawh ber mai!

“A fiah loh pawhin min hrethiam r’u aw,” tiin ka au chhuak hialin ka hria. A lo va’n atthlak tak!!! Ka hmet a, ka hmet leh a, ka hmet leh a. Tichuan thla pawh kan la dun nual a. Ka phone-ah erawh kan la loa, pawi ka ti hnuhnawh hle mai. Ka neih ve chhun lah naute’n “I va in la baby ve,” emaw, “I va nui happy lo ve,” “Hei aia nuih nasat zawk tur asin le!” min la tih sak nawk zui!

Engpawh ni se, ka rilrua tla na ta em em chu hei hi a ni. Kan mihring puite’n kan hming an hriat pawh heti taka kan lawm pui a nih chuan, lei leh van siamtu Pathianin kan hming a hria hi kan lawmna tur ava sang nasa tak em! “Hlau suh u, ka tlan tawh che u hi; in hmingin ka ko che u a, ka ta in ni asin” (Is. 43: 1b) tia sawitu engkimtithei Pathian chuan kan hming chauh ni lovin, kan sam zai zat thlengin min hria a. Nu pum chhunga siam kan nih hma atrangin min lo hre tawh a (Jer. 1: 4-5), kan beiseina turin kan thratna min ngaihtuah sak a (Jer. 29:11). Pathianin min hriat chian zia a ngaihtuah chuan Sam phuahtu chuan, “Chuti kauva hriatna chu ka tan a mak lutuk a; a sang em a, ka phak lo a ni” (Sam 139: 6) tiin a lo sawi hial a nih kha.

Damchhung nitin khawsaknaah thil chi hrang hrangin min bawm vel a. Kan ngaihhlut leh ngaihsak thilte’n kan hlutna min theihnghilh tir fo thrin. Kan nundan phung avangin rualawhna nunah kan lut a, kan hmuh theih thilte avangin kan hmuh theih loh thilte kan theihnghilh fo. Chung karah chuan Pathianin min hriat chian zia hi hai a awl em em a lo ni.

Hlutna nei ta lova inhriat avangin kan beiseina bo ta in kan inngai a, mahni hlutna zawngin kan thiam danin khawvel thil zingah kan in zawng a. Kan hmuhte’n min daih rei si lo.

Krista thisena lei mihringte hlutzia kan inhrilh nawn fo hi a lo va han pawimawh tak em! Chumi bakah kan nuna Pathianin a dah te hnenah an hlutzia hriattir turin, an hming chauh ni lovin anmahni kan hrechiang a, kan ngaihsak tak zet a ni tih hriattir thei ila chuan mi nunah danglamna tam tak kan siamsak theiin a rinawm a ni.

Semblances of Love

Why do they always have to end
These wandering hands
Searching for semblances of love
On these two mounts of the chest?

What message do they convey
These soft mounds of flesh,
In sacred whispers to these loving hands
That words and deeds fail to show?

Love is abstract, so we are taught
That can be felt but not seen;
Yet it is only too humane
To want to hold on to the material.

So we look for semblances of love
In things that we believe represent
The concrete for the abstract,
The logical for the illogical.

And as your arms enfold me tonight
I wonder if I am enough to you
Just as I am, with no pretense
To be the semblance of love you look for.