By Ting Lian
The dark room is silent without a single light
Only the glow of my alarm clock, 4:30 AM, proves that I’m awake at night
I bought this quiet hour with the price of my slumber
I scatter my hands between pages of a notebook
“Day 2” and empty lines
My second day with nothing written
An empty page that I don’t think anything can fill
And as my pen skirts the pages, I drift to edge of a fantastical dawning shore
A blue hour where fleeting moments accumulate and forms eternity
I can take the horizon, but the tide will always demand its footing
The most precious things might be the things you have to give away
And the empty lines asks me:
Thursday’s has far to go
So how must I live tomorrow?
Where must I begin?
Waking up early? Out of bed by six?
Whatever I choose, I must run
But to run I must hold empty hands
In order to run faster and faster,
I must leave the versions of myself I’ve known by the shore,
And tread into ceaseless waves, even if I’m borne back to the shore
So I tell the empty lines:
It might not amount to much,
But I would like to write my own Day 2
A second day that I must live in a world of my own
A child with a long way to go
The days that will wait for me
My feet must keep pace
The moment that unfolds again