My living room is a mysterious room that reigns by enchanting powers. Nothing there is out of the ordinary though - a wall made by a giant window that overlook my messy but vigorous yard; a white leather chair next to the window wall which faces a TV and a stereo. To the opposite of the window, there is a piano against the wall. But somehow, sitting on the chair alone makes my head goes blank, I can seldom think. The room makes me forget everything that upsets me, and clears all my worries. It is enchanted, indeed.
Outside the window, there is a Poinciana - a tree, which has small leaves look like fern’s, and blossoms in summer with clusters of redish orange flowers - standing in the middle of the yard. In summer and autumn, whenever there is wind or breeze, the leaves would fly off the tree like yellow snow.
I can sit on the white leather chair beside the window, look at my yard for hours, and still won’t get bored. There are abundant of things to see. The window is a frame of a moving artwork – some of the birds fly around rendering mating rituals; some of them fall down from the sky try to grab a bite. Sometimes, if I am lucky, I can see a lizard scares away by a bird. From the window, I can see the dance of next-door-neighbor’s bamboo trees as well. In blooming seasons, the living room becomes a playground of the breeze scented by flowers occasionally.
The most surprising scenario I have ever seen was a stray mommy cat tried to hunt a pigeon. First, she laid very low, crawled silently in the grass. After stalking the pigeon for a short while, she suddenly started to run like a bullet. She failed a few times, but got her prey eventually and ate it with her kittens joyfully.Labels: writing
It was a hot, hot Tuesday afternoon. The sky was cloudlessly bright; the streets were jammed with tourists. I had been wandering around on the street for a few hours. When I felt the hot air started burning my lungs, and I couldn’t stand the heat any longer, there it was, an old pub. Weak guitar music slightly flew out from the door gap. I could barely hear the music. It seemed to be blocked by the heat that reined the street. I couldn’t resist the blotched pub door, even though I knew I didn’t drink alcoholic drinks at all.
As I went near the door, I was immediately sucked into the pub. It was an instant relief. Inside the pub was a totally different world –the air was chilly and easy, a few chairs and tables scattered unevenly. There were only a handful of customers, a bartender, and a dog laid on the floor napping and twitching at times. People lazily listened to the songs, nodded a little, chatted a little.
There was an old man singing while playing a guitar. Wrinkles on his face were so deep that people might assume those were scars engraved on him. But somehow, he sang joyfully. The painful history didn’t affect him; he sang joyfully.
Labels: writing