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  • Writer's pictureTuananh


May 12, 2015

Where am I?  Why am I even here?  Who am I?  What is it that I am seeking?  The vision and questions that evoke any traveler to this place shouldn't be these simple questions, but rather, they should be minded by what their eyes reveal, what their feet can cover, what their hands may touch, and unveil the ignorance that once shrouded their ears.  The shadows casting upon the golden steps of the Bradbury gave its own meaning to the senses.  I, for one, found the limits to the space, and this place, and at this time, a hazard.  Perhaps the shutter is lacking because of a heavy heart, perhaps the gaze and pace is melancholic because of an empty heart, perhaps the crowding tear have hazed the innocent focus of what could have been a beautiful photograph.  So I excuse myself, not in shame or in hope, but rather in the selfish pain of loss and agony.  To be defeated, to be driven, to be lost is a sensation that finds no solace and no can only exist in a short moment, but a moment that will remembered for a lifetime. 

I am censored.  But reborn.

The company of Carolin, Brian, and Greg, crawling our way through the back-lot of the Cinco de Mayo festivities and to the empty lanterns that crowned Bruce Lee's head.  We talked about light, we talked about passion, we talked about politics, we talked about history, and we talked about life.  As I dunk my roast beef further, I finally understood...the suffering of just a few lines ago, was just that, it was a moment, and moments will pass and another moment will arrive.  So we gamble.  We hope.  We plea.  That that next moment is polar to the last and a bit closer to the content of the now.

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