Someday, a friend told me about her feelings. That a long time ago, her father just planted an “epiphyllum” tree, which is the scientific name for Night Cactus. It only blossoms at night, and she and her father would spend a night out in the front yard that still held some heat of the summer day, appreciating poems and “tasting” moonlight. She said although she did not have a good relationship with her father, she was in love with those days. Until one day, she came back home and discovered that the tree had gone. She was so upset. I’m glad she confided in me. 


An ordinary story that has no outstanding features, bearing every resemblance to any other stories, you may think. I might agree with you. But what if I did not write all of this, and instead you spent the last minutes reading some other, more interesting stories, not even being aware that floating somewhere, in the sea of subconscious thoughts and one-all stories exists a story about a girl who fell in love with the Queen of the Night flower and those scorching yet starry summer nights? 


I think that’s where the role of writers steps in: bring a story to the pages. One may read it, and like it; one may not. One may forget it right away, but one, maybe centuries behind the time the story was brought to life, may cry reading it. Things happen in life; that is the truth. Close your eyes for a minute and millions of events have occured beyond your knowledge. That’s how I find the world so beautiful, so mysterious and holding so many things to learn. 


A janitor never writes. But she has a job to be honoured and a story to be told. 

A man in the McDonalds was staring at his uneaten burger. Amidst the chaos of the fast food store, he sat still. I did not know if it was the burger, the table, or a memory of sadness he was staring at. 

I found a teenage girl outside at 2 am drinking and smoking, her eyes soulless. 


Whenever looking at somebody, I always wonder about their life, and how they deal with the life they were offered. The basis of life is hardship, is sadness, and the beauty of life is to witness how people overcome their difficulties with illuminous traits. Through how we deal with conflicts, like how priest Ralph solved the deadly clash between his morals and his love shows us how love can overcome everything, of how Chi Dau had to painfully sell her daughter for money to save her husband and her kids’ father, reflecting valuable virtues in a colonized, oppressed Vietnamese woman, the writer has to be sensitive enough to recognize as well as give an aesthetic account to those quintessences. 


Untold stories will be forever untold and covered with the dust of time without writers. That’s why I highly appreciate writers, the sculptors of stories and words. Stories make the world as I know it today: full of chances and possibilities; too beautiful a life to give up on. I hope that you will find it the same after reading my humble piece too. And above all, I hope I have brought something untold to you. 



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