Fool's Gold.

I write.

Untitled, for now.

The night before, one.

He laid on the soft comfy sheet of blanket, turning over and over again. It was weird, to be honest. For months, he wished for something even merely resembles the thing that was covering his back, but now that he had got it, he wasn’t sure if he liked it anymore. Maybe he was too used to the lovingly chill from the cell’s ground. The whole “last day special treatment”, really was unnecessary. He would be dead soon, anyway, so maybe he’d want to enjoy the cell in its usual glory, one last time?

The familiar cracking of the “door” (to be fancy) sat him up. Took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the sudden source of light. It was painfully bright, or maybe he was just too used to the dark by now.

A quirked smile cracked up on his long face. So at least there was one thing he liked from being treated well, they let his cell mate join him, one last time. Thankfully, his mate wasn’t one to die the following day, so he might be able to enjoy the softness of the blanket. In his place, of course.

“Yo…”-his voice sounded weaker than it should’ve been. Another strange thing of that day. He was well fed, but didn’t really enjoy any of his favourite food; treated (a tiny bit) more kindly, but it just felt awkward, since then he’d have to try to reply nicely to them, too; and now this. He didn’t want his mate’s last memory of him is someone who broke down under the idea of death. No! Since he himself wasn’t even scared. He gave no thought about it, and that should be enough of proof. Well, to him, at least.

“How’s it going for ya?”-his mate, tried. The guy  tried to choose his words properly, he could tell. But he could also tell, that he failed. And the miserable pitiful look on his face, was seriously award winning. Come to think of it, if he had put on that kind of face, no, that exact face, in front of the jury, back then, he might have been able to get away with it. Or at least get some sympathy from them, since for some weird reason, people seemed to care a bit more for those who act like they know their doings were wrong.

Well, that’s bullshit. Because it might be wrong for others standard, but you yourself, chose to do it, so to an extent, you kind of accepted the righteousness of it. At least to you, and by you, he meant him. So yeah, he wasn’t one to bullshit, and he wouldn’t.

“Well, good food, good manners, good blanket, good mate, what more a prisoner could ask for?”-there, sounded better.

His mate sat down next to him, grabbed a corner of the blanket and played (or any word to describe the action of the hand with an object in a state of unconscious) with it. The sadness on his face was so obvious, it lightened the mood up a bit.

“Aren’t you scared?”

“Of what?”-laughed-“Of all of these coming to an end? Fuck, yeah, I’m scared.”

Fuck, yeah.

His mate’s brows furrowed, and the guy sighed. He hated seeing that guy sad, he reminded him so much of the little brother he once had. Before law and theoretical justice separated them. At least they gave him a new one.

“I don’t know, man. Some guys said it’s extremely painful.”

He cracked up, again. The guy never failed to cheer him up.

“Well, those guys who were still able to say that obviously haven’t gone anywhere near the blades yet, eh? And also, have you ever seen any of them screamed?”

“Because they’re dead!”

“And that’s exactly the point. I’d be dead to even tell if it hurts or not.”-a devilish grin appeared, as he whispered in glee-“Andd, I’ve got him.

“Him? OH, you mean HIM?”-eyes widened-“HOW?!”

“Eh, nothing a respectable amount of money couldn’t do.”-said with a smug.

“Oh man, lucky you. He’s said to be the best.”

“Of the best of the best of the best.”-“People compared his cuts to an artwork. And think how honourable it is, to be a major part of art. Without me and my head tomorrow, the art couldn’t even be completed.”

The excitement in his voice worried his mate a bit. The guy knew He was the type of guy who enjoys romanticized everything, everyone could tell, listening to the way he talked. But to look forward to his own death? Man, that’s just a bit insane.

“Also,”-his tone lowered a bit, and for once, it sounded like there was a bit of genuinity in what came out of his mouth-“His cuts  are supposed to be so swift, no pain could be found. That’s mercy, you know.”

“I don’t know, man, you don’t really associate ‘mercy’ with a job like that.”

“Eh, to help people with a painless death, you don’t get any more merciful than that.”-he laid down, eyes on the ceiling, as his mate’s grip on the blanket tightened-“He’s a good guy. I’d like to think so.”.

The night before, two.

Stroke. Turn. Stroke. Wipe.

Stroke. Turn. Stroke. Wipe.

Remember that you are not sharpening the edges, you are removing metal until the edge is exposed.

Stroke. Turn. Stroke. Wipe.

Remember, there is such a thing as a blade that’s too sharp. If it’s too sharp, it will very rapidly loses its edge when cutting, and may even chip and break. So less, is always more.

And that should be enough.

Very carefully, run the piece of sandpaper along one side of the edge of the blade with your finger at a 30 degree angle. Be careful. Trust his words. He had seen some of his colleagues, rookie or not, cut their pretty little fingers off with a smug.

It’s not the blade’s fault. It’s their stupidity. Don’t blame it on the blade. And unlike them, he’s not stupid, so he would be careful.

See, no fingers lost.

He held up the blade, checking, and satisfied. It should be ready for the following day’s work. Very carefully, he put the blades away. He wouldn’t want any damage to them, since it’s his means of putting food on the table.

People prized and complimented him on his “techniques” and “skills”, but to be brutally honest, it’s all the blade’s work. He was merely the one holding it. Try putting a dull blade in his hands, the result would be messy, he was sure of it.

Ugh, messy. Blood, was not his favourite thing. Especially if it goes everywhere. He had seen some of his colleagues letting the blood spattered on their faces, and bragged about it. He disgusted those. He would rather die than letting any of the gory stuff touches his face. That’s why there comes gloves. Not only would it look fashionably cooler, but also cleaner. More hygiene. And that’s why he practiced, and practiced, and practiced, for the swiftest, cleanest cut possible. So no weird stuff would get spattering anywhere.

See, that’s a dilemma. If he hated blood so much, why would he do such a bloody job?

Well, it’s kinda like once you’ve gotten involved, you couldn’t get out. First of all, the wages sure were better than his old butcher job. Second, his great grandpa was quite legendary for his cuts, so yeah, it’s a family thing. And last, and might not be least, it’s the first and only thing people complimented him on. Complimented, and prized. For some reason, no one cared when he handed them a perfect slice of filet, taken from the most delicious smaller end of the tenderloin. No one. They simply paid, and walked away. But with this, with this new….thing. Everytime  a head fell, he heard cheers. He heard applauses. He heard love. And that’s the thing he liked to hear.

Don’t get him wrong, there were absolutely no similarity between cutting off someone’s head and chopping a pork chop. They were people. They spoke the same language as him. Therefore, he would understand their cries of pain or any of the sort. Definitely not something a pig would be able to do to him. Sigh, maybe that’s why he liked to keep his cut as neat and quick as possible. To lessen their pain (or to prevent them from having enough time to even scream). It’s kind of….better, he’d like to think so.

But you kinda get used to it. He knew. The feeling of scare and sorry for the person kinda faded along with time, and experiences. He didn’t know whether he would want that smidgen trace of feelings to linger a bit longer, or to just wipe It out, and only focuses on the finesse of the cut. Both of them had their own pros and cons, that he wasn’t willing to consider and choose.

He sat down, hands laced together, and sighed. It was the part he hated the most before any day of work. Fear and anxiety would eventually start clumping up, and he couldn’t do anything more than to just sit there and wait for the whole thing to be done with. Just to wait for it to happen again with the next job.

Fear and anxiety, ha, what could they be. Others, they wouldn’t understand. Everyone looked at his professionalism with such envy, thinking how confident he must have been. After all, it’s his job. But what they didn’t know, was the more they looked up on him, the more scared he was. With so many people staring, just one slip of hand, one second of tremble, one drop of sweat, all could ruin his cut, and his reputation. To be completely honest, he didn’t consider himself to be the best in the job. He wasn’t one to appreciate every single cut or go crazy over the new best kind of blade. He just do what he had to. And that’s why, if he slips, people would realize what a con he was. Someone who didn’t even appreciate the art of his work. And from the viewpoint of the top, he would get kicked down to the very bottom, along with all the heads that had been artfully cut off. No. He must get it right. Again. For the sake of the money, the glory, and his pride. He must get it right. Like he always had.

Enough of sentiments. Now he go to sleep.

The day, one.

Every steps felt heavy. Maybe it was the weight of the chain, but he thought it was more because they had to put chains on him. They didn’t even trust him enough. What kind of person did they think he was? Definitely not the kind to run away from his death. By that, he refuse to believe it was his yearn for life that weighed him down. He was walking to his death, and he would do it proudly.

The dude dressed in classy clothing read aloud his crimes. A bit proud, they were his doings, and they were sure to impress.

A pastor walked up and started blessing him, or whatever the fat man thought he was doing. Ugh, didn’t they read his profile? He was clearly stated as a godless man. No religion could do him any good. He was his own religion. Ugh, it was just….embarrassing.

C’mon, the process is taking unnecessarily long, and he wasn’t enjoying it. Where’s the big man? He needed to see him. He needed to make sure….

The fat man (finally) finished, and his sight lit up. Walking up from the stairs, there he was. The infamous executioner/artist. The one who would lead him to his painless and glorious death. And he sure looked worthy of the price. Bear-like figure, sturdy and strong grip on the tool, and oh my god (ha), look at that perfectly sharpened blade. He was fine, then. He would be fine.

The artist, living up to his name, satisfied his expectations. He took no time to mess around or to linger, he walked to where he was bending down, and just one mere second of perfectly timed, artful stop (must be for the dramatic vibe), the blade slid down, touching his long neck, and went nicely through his throat.

That was when, he finally understood, that he was wrong. Everyone was wrong. It might be quick, but it was sure to hurt. In fact, it must’ve been the most painful thing he had ever, and could ever, experience. But he wasn’t there to tell his mate anymore.

They were right about one thing, though. It was quick. And he was soon painlessly dead.

The day, two.

It was done. Again. It was over.

It still surprised him, all the time, how quick the process actually was. All the long-ass preparations, all the heart wrenching sentiments, all flushed away in slit seconds, as the familiar “thud” appeared. The head has successfully cut off, and was lying perfectly neat in the basket.

A quick check, no splatter, no nothing. At least not on him. Good, then.

The guy didn’t scream, as usual. And as usual. His face was facing down to the basket, so he couldn’t really see the guy’s expression. People said there shouldn’t be any, since it would be too quick for them. Yeah, hope that it wasn’t too painful.

He lifted his sight up, giving the headless body one last look, quickly examining the open cut/wound that his blade left.

“Looks alright.”-mumbled, putting away his blade, and walked down in the cheer of the crowd. Pretty sure that was the only sound he could hear.

                                                                                                                                The end.



Greg Cohen Photography

Everything is better, A La Mode.

Brie Boy (not an original work)

Brie Boy had a dream he had only had twice,
that his full, round head was only a slice.

The other children never let Brie Boy play …
… but at least he went well with a nice Chardonnay

The personal (trash) wasting dilemma of Watt Waster.

*Author’s Note: Now I know the request was for some poetic play of words, but I know my strength, and it’s not with rhymes. So I’m just gonna give it a go with what I had in mind.


Watt Waster was a fine decent young man. He has just graduated high school with top score, and will be moving to the great city of New York and study in a great college. His plan, was to head to greatness.

"Now you see, Rubby, my plan contains greatness."-he sat, chair to chair, face to face with the opposition-"But to reach greatness, I have to move on. And moving on, doesn’t include you."

He tried to keep his straight face saying it, but the trembling of his voice proved differently. 

Of course, how could he not be emotional. It was Rubby he was talking to. His very best friend since the moment mommy gave him the teddy-rabbit hybrid stuffed toy, the one he shared everything, every single moment of saddness and happiness with. And now, he was breaking up with her, breaking up with his childhood.

"No, don’t make that face, Rubby. You don’t understand! I’m a grown up now, and grown up have to be friends with other grown ups. I mean, look at you, you are still…the same after twelve years. I can’t keep you around. I can’t!"

The toy just sat there, being still as it always has been. But Watt’s face squirmed in pain, double it up, for Rubby.

"That’s it. Protest however you want to, I’m still taking you to the trash can first thing in the morning tomorrow."-he stood up, wiping away his tears-"Now if you excuse me, I have a date with my GROWN UP girl friend."

He closed the door, leaving Rubby alone in the dark.

The morning after has the ability to be considered a beautiful day. Sky was clear and as blue as the Tiffany&Co. ‘s box, while the sun shone as bright as the diamond on a Tiffany’s ring. Everything bling-ed and bling-ed, perfect for a break up. Perfect for a trip to the garbage dump.

The trip to the dump was a quiet one, neither of them said a thing. Watt tried to enjoy the beautiful daylight, but the look on his face fell so dark, no light was able to brighten it up. He parked the car, held Rubby by the ears, like he always had, threw her down, and left, heartlessly.

A few days later, our Watt was walking on the street after meeting his girlfriend, trying to get use to the bitter tase of coffee in place of his old cookies and cream blizzard. It was a pleasant change, but it was a pleasure to change. 

He passed a pair of mother and child sitting in the corner of the road, seemingly very tired and hungry, and dirty. The smell coming from them was so awful, it almost was able to compare to the garbage dump he recently went to. Like every other grown ups, he was going to ignore them and carry on with his path, but a glimsp of the little girl held him back. In her hand, was Rubby. Definitely. Twelve years spending together, there was no way he could have mistaken her. The little girl, was holding ever so tightly on to his Rubby.

Despite the smell coming from them, he hurriedly knealt down, asking the little girl with the kind and composed voice of adulthood:

"Little girl, if I may ask, where did you get this toy?"

The girl looked confused, turning to her mother, looking for permission to speak with the gentleman. As her mama nodded, thoguh very cautiously, she answered with timid:

"I picked it up from the garbage dump,"-swallowed-"Sir."

His face stiffened, but like every other adults who was able to take control over their expression, he relaxed soonl. and smiled:

"Miss, this toy is a very special belonging of mine that was accidentally lost. If you don’t mind, I would like to take it back. I can buy it back if you want to."-he took out the twenty dollar bil, handing it close to the mother.

"Dear, give it to him. I’ll buy you something else with the money."-immediate reaction from the mother, whose eyes seemed to lit up as the bill was offered.
"But, I like it, mommy…"

"Dear, just give it to the gentleman. He said he lost it, adn it was HIS."

Watt smiled as the girl gave it back to him, but the smile soon turned into something else, the moment he walked away, with Rubby, properly held by the ears.

That night, Watt could be found alone, in a field, digging and digging, in the dirt. The man mumbled, repeatedly, as each shove of dirt was lifted.


Once again, Rubby was dropped down into a hole, and was left in the dark.

Dear Watt came back to check on that hole somewhere around five times after the dig, each time with a shove, for a proper check if Rubby was still there. Soon, he knew, she would be decomposed, and absorbed by mother Earth. She would, finally, disappear.

And he was right. Rubby did eventually get absorbed into the dirt.

Years later, people started turning that land into a cotton field, as the soil seemed perfect for the crop. While Watt was now a prestigious professor with a big office, in a big house, and a big beautiful family. To his content, he and his wife had two grown son, and a little girl, Ruby. His life, was everything he wanted, for his dream of adulthood.

One day, one of is son brought hom a decent young lady for an introduction. The lady was very decent, so she brought a gift for little Ruby. Ruby was very excited, her face glowed receiving a beautiful new stuffed teddy-rabbit toy from the lady. The plushie surpassed every toy she has ever owned, as she ran to her father, excitedly, holding the plushie by the ear, to show off her new friend to him.
"Father, father, look what brother’s girlfriend gave me! Isn’t she cute?"

To the horror of Watt, he almost dropped his warm loving smile, seeing perfectly clear the image of Rubby in the hand of his daughter.

"Rubby…"-he whispered under his trembling breath. 

Like every other kid, Ruby was a sharp listener. She caught his saying perfectly clear.

"Rubby…That’s a pretty name! I’m going to call her that. Thanks, Daddy!"

She turned away, holding the precious toy in hand, skipping back to her room, leaving her poor father, Watt Waster sitting alone, in the dark.

Afterwards babbling.

I guess dreams really do work in the most ridiculous ways.

In all honesty, I couldn’t help but see myself testing a numerous theories on dreaming (by kept automatically making refrences of my recollection on those scraps and bits of memory, the exact moment I woke up), of which I thought had already been tested by myself. Maybe it meant that I had never truly been satisfied with the fact that I kind of blindly believed in them, or it’s just that I’ve never believed in them, at all. I do notice, however, that I sincerely wanted to believe.

They say you dream about things you constantly think about during the day. It was true. Partly. Because if it was true all the way, I would’ve been dreaming non-stop about my 1m60 hero, but no. It was rather funny, how it’d choose the most random things, those that might simply pops up in your head any occasion during the day, even just for one single second, to appear in your dream. Or, it’s choose the things that during our moments of awakened, we were stressing, thinking, worrying non-stop about. How vivid, the appearance of them. For example, I was stressing so hard about how to ask to come to Ha Thu’s place, or whether I should go to the gym today or not. In the end, they were both there.

They say within the first five minutes after you wake up, you forgets 90% of what you had dreamt about. Normally, that was quite correct. No matter hard I tried, again, normally, all I could recall were fragments and pieces,  of what possitively stood out most during the dreaming process. However, sometimes, it works differently. Like the main reason why I’m sitting here, missing my obsessive-exercise time, to write about. This, is the first time ever, if my memory is to be trusted, I remembered almost correctly all the details and the construction of the whole dream. Funny, how sometimes we want to remember something, something sweet, something pleasurable, but we simply couldn’t. Our mind chooses to forget. Occasionally, what seems like such ordinaries in our life, were to be remembered, and would stick around, whether we like it or not, seemingly forever. Life is a beautiful, and unpredictable whore.

 According to Freud, there are three personality presents. The id, the ego, and the super ego. To simplify, the id is a personality that the conciousmind seems to have to control over. It has been there since the day we were born, by that, we could say that the “id” is the most primary basic of our nature; a personaily that acts upon, and seeks for pleasure, and mostly driven by the libido. An example could be shown by looking at an infant, it doesn’t really know that it’s hungry, since hunger, is a sense, a “word”, that will be later taught to the ego and the superego. But it does realize the feeling of tummy rumbling, and the need to search for something to eat. So it cries. Cry, until someone feed “it”. In the most basic and innocent way, the crying baby is a representation of the “id”. The “ego”, is ruled by sense of reality, that it surpress the “id” and the “superego”, in order to create a person with actions acceptable to social standard, something that makes people “normal”; like when you need to pee, you would excuse yourself to the toilet, rather than just “let it out” right where you were. The “ego” is in its glory during our concious moments. Our very concious moments. But once it comes to unconciousness, “ego” seems to ber overpowered (by our dear friend “id”).  About the “superego”, it’s what we’d say an ideal “us” would be. What our conscience seems to act upon, the very most ideal of rules and standards of what “a good behavior” would be. The example would just be the you that needed to pee, would excuse yourself to the toilet first, before going to the toilet, and there would be no way the super ego would allow you to pee right there. The super ego appears in all conciousness, preconciousness, and unconciousness state of mind, with a certain power in its hand.

The interaction between the two could normally depends on the situation. Like how the ego would surpress and combine the two others while we are awake, and moving, in the watchful eyes of our society. But it would let the “id” to have its freedom in the unconciousworld, where our brain is the only thing that’s working, alone, without the help of other body parts like our limbs to be able to act upon the control of “id”. So let’s put it to image. The “id”, the “ego” and the “superego” are sitting on a card table, or maybe playing billiard, looking all cool and mob-ish, discussing which memories coming from the conciousness of “ego”, could be let into dreamland, the terrioty of the “id”, and which dreams would “ego” allow to stay after its appearance. Maybe, that’s why sometimes we remembers, and sometimes we forgets.

I sometimes wonder if the “ego” has any power in “dreamland” at all, since it should be the thing that would be able to tell that we were dreaming. “Ego” acts on logic. But no matter how unlogical everything in our dreams seems to be to us when we’re awake, it makes perfect sense there, that there would be no way we woud be able to determine that we were actually living in a dream. Accordingly, there appears to have their own rules of logic and how logic works in that land.

Back to the main thing, the thing that turned me into this babbler, the thing that surprisingly stuck in my mind vividly even after surpassing the five centrail minutes. My dream from today’s afternoon nap.

It started with some kind of old wood-filled looking hall, where surprisingly, turned out to be my school, with all classes of it in every room. I walked into one, realizing it wasn’t my class, so moved to another, where  supposingly, it was. I could only tell because a friend of mine was there, even though I couldn’t  make out the face of others, I knew, because she was there. She represented it. My friend, let’s call her Mel, was sitting and laughing the way her usual self would. An empty period, so I did what I normal do, I left my bags in my class, under Mel’s protection, to be specific, and skipped. I went out, wander from one class to another, while messing the directions and seemingly has gotten lost, because they all looked exactly the same. I wonder how I could’ve differ them. But something happened. Some how, a student got turned into a monstrous looking alien, the one that scared me during my childhood because of its habit of eating human flesh and was reminded by the trailor of the movie “Pometheus” I recently saw a day ago, so everyone was ordered to evacuate.

I made my way through the crowd back to my class, fearing everyone mgiht have left and the alien might have been in it. But no, the room was still full. Infact, it was full of still sitting people, just that they weren’t my class. They were what I knew was my best friend’s class, Physic 1. Maybe because it was all boys? Or maybe because to me, he represented that class, of where he belonged, or of why I came to know the class; because he was there.

I walked in, and was greeted by a guy, who I again, knew, was the captain of the school’s basketball team. Funny, since I don’t even know the guy and couldn’t make out his face. The greeting of his was constructed of a series of questions and mockiness. But I ignored him, and just tried to look for my friend. He was sitting right where Mel was, and waved at me with a big smile. I wondered why they were still laughing, but once I got to him and asked for my bag, the oerder came to them, and they started packing. That was when I realized what a monster I truly was, since I didn’t care about anyone’s safety, I didn’t care about the fact that the alien could devour them all if they don’t leave in time; all I cared about was to take my belongings and moved my ass out of there as fast as I could. I sincerely thanked whoever didn’t order to leave the bags behind. I’d be devastated.  So I tuck my hand in the table’s hollow, and pulled out a black leather side bag. I somehow knew that it wasn’t mine, but I put it on anyway. Took a few moments after I walked out for me to realize that it wasn’t the one I came in with, and for my friend to realize that too, and called me back to exchange, since it was “his bag”. Another theory tested, they couldn’t know because you couldn’t know. So I came back and changed for a white and black colored back-pack, one that surprisingly looked like a friend of mine. I’ve always thought side-bag wasn’t as good as back-pack. Now, I came to realize why that black leather bag was there, it was my bag, the exact same, with exact print, when I was still in 7th grade. People, they liked that bag.

The class started packing, I couldn’t recall if they moved out or not, but one guy, the captain guy, was still standing. He was standing over a lying dude, who was in the mid process of transforming into an alien. He stood there, in the water filled ground (water surrounded the lying guy), face covered with streaks and splatter of blood. He wasn’ t scared. He was just yelling at the lying guy with the same expressive face, something about betrayal. I wasn’t afraid, maybe since I knew he wasn’t yet dangerous, and if I move fast, I wouldn’t get caught. Still, the captain was brave (or maybe a lunatic, I don’t know). Bravery, was a question, and something, that I don’t exactly know for sure whehter how much, of if there’s any, in me at all. If it was my friend who turned in to the alien, I would just run away to save myself immediately, I believe.

Sinichi Kudo, or rather, Edogawa Conan turned back to his normal self, was invited to investigate the case, as I saw him strolling down the hall. Impressive, how the “id” takes what as memorable, since I read the story containing that character a few days ago, and am pretty convinced that the “ego” took no special interest in it. I was told to go home, and be safe for the rest of the day, and this, was where it started to get weird.

Coming home, I found a wounded John Watson on the bed of a pink room,  I’ve don’t recall seeing it ever before. He was wounded, and he didn’t seem surprise to find me walking in. He was on the bed, so I was standing. However awkward it might sound now, believe me, it seemed perfectly normal then.

Suddenly, we, I mean both of us, John and me, heard strange sounds, as a shadow of an alien started to creep up. It came, jumping into John, attacking him. We knew , and were both surprised, that the fat lady downstaris selling antiques (now this is funny, since Antiques in the name of a manga I just finished) turned out to be an alien. John called for help, and some one came from her behind and atacked her. Then we were called from below to go down and escape on a military looking open aired car. So be slid down on the pipes to the ground. How jolly, since while sliding down, we were able to see all those who lived under us, and the fat lady was still in her shop, writing something.

We came to the car, I don’t recall any of their face, and turned out that the fat lady, who joined us too, was a secret agent of the special mission about thee aliens. And we were, too.  She just claimed, and we just believed.

The car started moving, to somewhere, but I didn’t question. I trusted those people. Then a guy in a hunting head suddenly turned to me, his face dangerously close to mine, yet I didn’t fear, and asked:

“Em thấy ngon không?” (simply translated to :how do you think?-by his meanings)

I turned to look at him, and there he was, Sherlock Holmes (Benedict Cumberbatch), was there, asking me about something like he trusted an valued my opinion, and we were very close.

I naively replied-“Cái gì cơ ạ?” (“What?”)

Sherlock: “John. Em nghĩ anh với anh ấy nên yêu nhau không?” (“John. Do you think I and him should be lovers?”)

Yes, like we were that close. True, though. I’ve always liked to be close to cool guys.

I grinned cheekily and said yes, as he chuckled in return, asking why.

Me: “Anh không thấy cách anh ấy đang nhìn mình à?” (“Don’t you sê the way he is looking at us?-jelousy.)

Sherlock: “Sao bằng cách Hà Thu đang nhìn anh em mình được.” (“How could it compare to the way Hà Thu is?!”

We both had a good laugh. Now, I remembered, Ha Thu is a hardcore fan of BBC Sherlock. I could still remember the way she looked at me with such grude, and how Shelock was looking at John after out laugh, lovingy, and with such kindness, I’m not sure what version of Sherlock Holmes that was.  But that certainly was not him. Later on, I didn’t see him anymore.

Infact, all those faceless people turned out to be a bunch of my club, GHA people. They still didn’t have any face, except on person, who I’d like to call VNM, and a girl in the club, Phan Thao, replaced the chuuby lady. Really funny, since I’m not even that close to her.  VNM was laughing with people, asking them where should we get dinner, while telling them that I, me, don’t eat rice. I wonder how he would be the one knowing that fact, and he sure seemed a lot jollier in my dream. I wanted to tell people that I didn’t just don’t eat rice, I don’t eat any kind of white carb. Still, I kept silent, and just smiled and nodded. I didn’t want to me judge, and I didn’t want ot be left out, anymore.

I remembered then, to check my phone, wondering why it was pitch black outside, yet they haven’t called yet. Maybe because my phone was too deep inside my pocket, so I didn’t catch any. I opened, and mu heart started jumping. Ten missed calls. Ten, then I saw the ID of those who called, but none were my parents. They were either Minh Ha, a dear dear girl of mine, or Leehul and Phuong from my gym. That was when I realized I has skipped gym tonight, so problem solved.

Somehow, my drivers words came to me, saying my parents were out of town, so I could just have fun and not to worry. I dream of those in reality.

Suddenly, everything turned back to the school with the hall, as if it was going to repeat itself again, in a much calmer way. How did I know, I don’t know.  I knew that I woke up shortly after, and that was all. I woke up, with the memory of my dream still perfectly unharmed.

Funny, how what I wanted to dream about never seems to appear, but rather what I needed, and what are stuck in myhead, would all came dancing in the concious of my unconciousness. To be honest, it’s quite devastating.

I guess I just need to dream more, hoping for the chance that one day, the trio of power will find it necessary, to allow me have the dream I wanted, to answer my quest and curiosity; and if they can be extra generous, maybe allowing me to remember it.

But the chances are slim.

                                                                                                                      Hanoi, June 19th, 2013, 8:16 p.m.

Color-blind, or the thoughts of an Apple Tree-(Black Apple remix)

Others tells her it’s black.

But through her eyes, it shines,

 A beautiful



An apple of her own.

But what if, what if, they’re telling the truth?

What if, its redness that she sees

Just because it’s rightteously hers?

So should she listens to them,

And throw it away?

Or should she listens to them others,

And cut it off all the way?