Her pleated hair twirls as inspiration wanders into the unknown realm where poetries thrive; as if in a trance, she stands there frozen while her thoughts drift and dance in a sea of possibilities. All she can do is to wait for inspiration to turn into dewdrops and fall nicely from the pencil tip onto the white paper. She is a poet on maiden voyage.
麻花辫子随灵感飞舞，在诗的领域恣意徜徉。坠入忘我境界，任凭思潮汹涌，在笔尖化作点点露珠，滴落纸上，满纸的湿。她于是踏上诗的处女航。
"It's so quiet up here."
Up upon a hilltop under those sturdy branches of an old camphor tree, thousands year of age, with bark engraved in deep burrows and distinct grains, like stripes of meandering rivers congealed into fossils of time, that was where she would spin her own never-ending fairytales.
Sometimes she would sing or sometimes recite a poem in sync to the rhythm of her swinging. Not an audience by her side, just the old camphor tree or the occasional breeze rubbing gently against the leaves and the branches and her hair.
她享受这天地的宁静。
老香樟树以上千载的沉稳为她架起飞扬的秋千。一荡一漾之间来回编织永无止境的美丽童话。偶尔哼支小曲，偶尔吟首小诗，偶尔吹来阵阵清风，撩起她的短发，穿过枝叶，仿佛送来掌声。
在整整三十分钟里，他们没有任何言语交流。就是彼此默默坐着，靠得很近。
生命在静默中进行着。
静默，仿佛一首幽微的歌。
Sometimes it just seems so hard to write or to draw anymore, when the mood for anything aesthetic or delicate or tenuous or subtle is lost amidst all things mundane. That’s the dilemma we are facing, to live life or to live the life we want. When bread and butter can no longer satisfy and rationalise our very existence in this world, we naturally turn to other means to actualise ourselves. But the quest for self actualisation can never be done without bread and butter; it’s a luxury in most societies, especially ours, never a necessity. No one can stop you to be a dreamer, but you know very well, even dreams can only be weaved, in the most ironical sense, realistically.
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