Between the Black and White: Oat nectar

Early morning, 

rain passes

my window reluctantly.

Under the dusk,

two shadows

collapse into one.

The one shakes and twists

until it falls

to everywhere and anywhere.


Love tiptoes in unnoticed, then slips away, another tiptoe. I remember that foggy dusk time, amidst swirling autumn leaves, I gestured to the rustling foliage and whispered to myself, “That must be Autumn’s postcard.” I thought it was a sign of joy and delight, but alas, it had to pass, foretelling the coming winter.


Empty-headed, I curl in my bed. What is said is said, what was done was done. I feel sorry for him, or rather, for things that seem so pretty which have to be let go eventually. 

I fetch a big bottle of warm oat nectar from my shelf near my bed, opened it and pour some into my cup. There’s an inexplicable allure of the simple flavor of oat nectar, more natural and comforting than blended oat milk. The tranquility of oats evokes a purity long forgotten, almost like the feeling of an infant’s first sip of maternal grace. I remember that he would always bring a bottle of warm oat nectar for me every time he passed the store selling oat nectar, and I would slowly taste the oat nectar while watching an episode of K-pop shows with him.

Oops, the oat nectar spilled onto my desk and tainted all my trivial things. 

Oh, the petal of the purple flower. I have to save that. It was a leftover from the pot of purple flowers that my friend sent to me to cheer me up from a long time ago. I never really took good care of it, but the flower survived by itself for a long while before it eventually died and all I am left with is this one piece of it. Why is it that flowers that strive to seek sunlight would one day cease seeking it, and could never revert to its most natural state again? 

Having cleaned up the mess, I start to drown myself in some K-pop songs. Flashbacks slowly squeeze back into my head. Sweet memories, but not too sweet either. Those memories were pretty, yet seeing them now, there is a shade of gray in the corner of those episodes that I never noticed before — the shadow of the light, and us. I blink. No, the shade of gray does not fade; instead, it spreads and diffuses, but rather kindly, leaving out spaces of whiteness and colors. 

Gradually, the colors blend and evolve into one concentrated beam of light. It is not sharp or dazzling, nor soft, but just an isolated, single beam. It pops, and disappears. 

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