A cool morning breeze flows in through the balcony door.
A new day has arrived.
The birds are chirping outside, two long-tailed birds chase each other on the roof while everyone else is still asleep.
The mountains are painted with the new sunlight.
It’s early, but I don’t want to sleep anymore; there are too many wonderful things waiting for me out there.
I want to wake up before the sun, to see the mountains casting shadows against the early sky, to feel the cool breezes.
I want to hear the chirping of the little sparrows, the cawing of the mischievous long-tailed birds, the morning train carrying people into the new day.
I want to drink water with the thirsty trees, admiring the delicate yet vibrant leaves reaching for the sky.
I want to plunge my hands into the soft earth, making my hands dirty and sowing the seeds of hope.
Every morning I wake up and sow seeds; some days I sow seeds of gratitude, some days seeds of harmony, other days seeds of happiness or health, sometimes seeds of peace or abundance… I have many seeds, and the earth will nurture and embrace my seeds, the rain will nourish my seeds, I just need to sow.
Every day, countless wonders are waiting for me; I just need to open my heart, just need to let my thoughts wander, and then I play, play with everything that comes to me throughout the day. Sometimes it’s the breeze as I ride my bike on the street, sometimes it’s the water from the tap when I wash my hands, sometimes it’s the edge of the boat as I lie down to feel close to the water, sometimes it’s with the new leaves sprouting from the old, rugged trunk, sometimes it’s with the ducklings waddling after their mother.
But the time I play the most is when I meet someone, anyone. I want to play magic, transforming serious faces into bright ones, turning contemplative eyes into laughter, changing introversion into openness, and turning calculation into love.
Oh, and I also love diving into books; those letters everywhere look the same, but they carry so many wonderful things I haven’t yet discovered. Every time I dive into a book, I get to fly to new lands.
That’s how my day is, filled with sounds, colors, hugs, and laughter.
I am happy to be born in this world.
A nuisance
The sun had reached its zenith. The surface of the lake and the entire scene were shrouded in a light mist. The flowers were still hiding deep in the ground, with only the bushes stretching their long arms, displaying their soft gray fur. The young leaves peeked out towards the path by the lake. This fog seemed to come from nowhere, but the birds and ducks hardly cared. They floated lazily like colorful balloons on the surface of the lake, the shimmering sunlight reflecting off the water like a vibrant palette. Two little birds flitted from branch to branch, chirping. The ducks drowsily tucked their heads into their wings. It was such a pleasant day.
Suddenly, the flapping wings of a giant black bird disturbed the water, creating ripples that caught the midday sun and directed it towards the dreamy ducks. The giant landed on a moss-covered piece of wood tied to a boat in the far distance and closed its eyes, dozing off.
“What a nuisance,” grumbled a blue-headed duck.
“Where did he come from?” added a brown duck.
The chatter of the ducks grew louder. The giant paid no attention to what they were saying. He looked towards the bustling ducks on the water. One tucked its head under its wing, round and fluffy. Another quacked anxiously. One paddled hurriedly. Another flapped its wings clumsily. One was bathing, droplets of clear water still clinging to its head. The giant glanced over and slowly spread his wings, eyes still half-closed.
“Really now,” a red-beaked duck quacked irritably, “Who does he think he is, spreading his wings like he’s the lord of this area?” The murmurs grew louder, disturbing the midday nap of all creatures.
The giant black bird still paid no attention to the rustling sounds in the wind. He continued to stretch his wings to dry off the feathers before the long flight ahead.
Two little birds with orange feathers on their chests peeked in and out from behind the newly sprouted green leaves, chirping away on the branch. It had nothing to do with them: “Today is such a beautiful and warm day; we must praise this beauty.” Hearing the rustling, they turned to look: “He has such wide wings,” then they resumed their chirping.
The ducks remained annoyed. “This is not his territory; if he feels uncomfortable, let’s go somewhere else.” The ducks waddled away.
The giant black bird kept his eyes half-closed, not understanding why the ducks were leaving in droves…
Child of the day
The child of the day is peeking through the peach-colored curtain, slipping into the house through the pure light, bringing with it the cool, fresh air of the early morning, like the skin of a newborn baby. It waits for the girl hiding in the warm, soft blanket, half awake, half dreaming.
“How will the girl receive it?”
“Does the girl wish to meet it?”
“Will she be swept away by thoughts lost in vague games, or will she play with it?”
It wants to play with the girl.
So many wonders are waiting for the two.
The smell of freshly baked bread wafts from the room with the large window overlooking the playful birds.
The pastries are beautifully arranged on the porcelain plates. The flowers that once held the tiny baby are propped up, watching the hungry ones. The scent of bread flows through the main door, where colorful circular decorations hang, climbs the carpeted stairs, glides over the landing, merging into the vibrant light of the new day through the large flower window, where eggs lie in a basket beside two beautiful porcelain rabbits. The aroma of bread wafts upstairs through the old, worn wooden staircase covered in green plastic, piercing through the patterned wooden door with thin glass from the old days. The fragrance seeps through the unlocked door, sneaks through the second door, filling the room with its delightful scent.
At this moment, the girl has opened the curtain to welcome the child of the day, slightly opening the window to let the morning air rush in along with the chirping of birds.
The sound of a bell rings out, vibrating through the air, sending its sound into the city, penetrating sleepy moments, passing through walls, then fading away, disappearing as if it had never been there, making way for the sounds of cicadas, laughter, lively conversations, the clattering of wheels on the old tiled floor, which, like the bell, also vanishes as if it had never existed. Only the sound of the black bird with an orange beak covers the space of the neighborhood, sometimes appearing, sometimes disappearing.
Now the girl is sitting at the table with two small green buds, the flowers still asleep, while the child of the day is perched on the curved leaf’s edge. Outside the window, the trees have not yet donned their coats; they reach out with bare branches covered in moss and fresh young leaves. The girl wonders: what color will those flowers become, each one carrying adventures just like her?
Passing by the brick staircase that leads nowhere, the purple flowers look around in the wind like little round balls, while a blackbird with an orange beak darts through a short distance before suddenly stopping to look around.
Rain, the colorful stones cut into oval shapes appear brighter in the water. The narrow alleyway is filled with round stones like the giant toes of a beast jutting into the street. The sound of bicycles clattering on the stone floor.
The water flows swiftly, a black head with two eyes bobbing up amidst the current, forming a white triangular wave. A boy wearing a cloth cap points at the colorful windmills on the iron railing by the stream. Sparrows squabble in the weak sunlight on the stone floor dotted with yellow flowers.
On one side of the street are restaurants filled with stories. Two shiny barrels occupy nearly half the shop. People enter the restaurant because of those two barrels, which dispense streams of golden, frothy liquid. Inside, they start as serious adults, rarely smiling, but when they leave, they become children in adult forms. They suddenly become wobbly like toddlers learning to walk, laughing and talking to strangers, and they unexpectedly meet the child of the day, but if they drink too much of that liquid, they will see everything multiplied many times over and lose their way home.
On the other side of the street, there are no shops, just bicycles and a wall painted with tilting houses, probably drawn by someone who just drank that strange liquid. A boy with a bun, looking defiant, climbs over the fence, trying to appear brave. The other children watch him with concern, then ignore him, running off to play.
Running around the city, the stone-paved gutters are covered with a layer of flowing green moss. A child holding a string pulls a boat, crying when the string slips from their hand, and the boat is nearly swept away.
Each street is connected by narrow alleys. Some alleys are so tiny that two people must squeeze past each other, while others are wider, running alongside the gutters. In this alley, one side has charming shops. In front of each shop, stones are carefully arranged so that people can immediately know what can be bought there. Knowing what to buy is easy, but figuring out if it’s a witch’s house or a fairy’s is not so simple.
In one shop, there are books covered in flowers, holding blank pages waiting to be filled with mysterious stories, unmissable adventures, or glasses that, when worn, make life overflow with love. The little prince is there too, with a scarf fluttering in the wind, perched on a tree, talking to a golden-furred fox. The white sheep are leisurely grazing among the spring flowers, some lying down, some standing and looking around, while others munch on grass. There’s plenty to explore here. The fairy, holding a dry yellow rose, is carefully preparing for the little prince to go to a new planet. Yet right beside her, a witch with shiny shoes watches passersby with a sly look. With her curly black hair swaying beside her oversized glasses, she quickly glances at the wallets or outfits of those who inadvertently step inside.
Exiting the alley, a creature made of sandstone seems to want to spray water down onto the carefully arranged circular stones, but it appears to have been enchanted and now stands rigidly.
Through another alley opens up a large space. A gigantic building stands tall with many pointed roofs. Beneath the inverted rooftops, beasts or half-human, half-beast figures lean out from the eaves, threateningly gaping their mouths. Surrounding the building, the facade is decorated with colorful glass so that when viewed from the inside, one can see all shapes and colors. Yet the little people standing in front of the building appear defiant, making all sorts of funny shapes with a large sign blocking the entrance.
Despite the discontent of the crowd, the aroma of sausages and fried onions wafts from a meat cart where three round men are busy spinning like pinwheels. In another corner, the smells of black, green, and brown olives, pickled peppers, cheese, and fresh pasta linger in the air. A part of Italy’s fragrant essence is swirling around here.
Under the porch at the corner of the street, a man plays the flute while strumming a ten-stringed instrument, playing a tune of American folk music. The sound of coins clinking together whenever someone passes by and drops some.
The makeshift rooftops look tiny before the grand building. No one pays much attention to the grotesque faces of the beasts or the solemn expressions of the servants. Life continues to bustle with fragrant asparagus poking out of bags, waiting to be distributed throughout the city. The bright green broccoli, pure white onions, and heavy bags filled with all sorts of colors.
The child of the day has grown, leading the girl to the enormous interconnected iron boxes, bringing her back to where she started.
It does not leave her; it remains by her side as she drifts into sleep and return at dawn.
Life around us 