Simple Things

A reflection by “A Transient Star”, an originative 18 years old.

In a sense, everyone has some kind of visual frame or “essence” of each other when they first met, be it your next door being described a literal incarnate of Lilo from Lilo and Stitch, or being so feminine, the only style you’re described of lies in the Hellenistic times. There are just about as infinite possibilities of eyes that mirror whom everyone sees in just about every other person, that’s what it felt like when I get a taste of greetings with Mr. Michael Ong.

One of the paintings he showed me today was of a woman riding a bike carrying a large trunk of flowers, riding down a cool morning that domes over the familiar town of Hanoi of sorts, like my home. The painting itself, like many as he described lacks meaning, they simply are, and wanted my lens on it’s simplicity for what it could mean more, I told him how it felt simple but seemingly hopeful, that the woman who carry those flowers is like a messenger of hope and determination itself, that maybe she feels she does not have anything to offer to the world but these adventurous floras that seen the world and everyone’s glances, he hearted it, and said he liked my view, it was sweet. And for a moment, I feel somewhat a similar way back when we first met.

Simple Things. Oil on Canvas. 45 by 60 cm

It was fondly to remember when I was first assigned to his appointments when I told my dad to have someone to “hear my heart out”, at the time, I was craving for someone to understand me, though it comes off like stained plates, given my bias for European thrills, but it not being so is completely fine by me, and it went that way when I realised my counsellor is a humble old man that almost resembles my grandfather by his smile.

I was hesitant, but I needed someone to just listen. I’m glad it was him. As a counsellor, he listens to every single ramble I had about my life and struggles, I told him everything, about my complications with my family, about my own flaws and how I see things that could only match the views of a rich hog in denial. I admitted that things were imperfect and speaking out to him feels like admitting my sins, but even then, he nods, describes all that he could and dissect them into small bits, perhaps that’s a job of a counsellor or any therapists, they can only help you find your OWN strength, and that’s not bad, it’s just I’m stupidly dependent even in matters of basic needs.

Yet like a sweet Iris, his soft glance doesn’t falter, heck, he even shares a portion of his life with me, about how “fitted out” he is with others with his preferences, about how he couldn’t have made it through if his mother did choose to leave it all behind for him.. and he’s still here, now a local artist he dabbles with the paints and crafts, forming a seeming story like threads or divine embroidery, I could taste the memories of it all, and was happy that although the light didn’t fully glimpse through the lonely window of my mind, I was glad there’s even light at all, that he was willing to shine for me and hope for my fortunate upcomings.

Since then, I occasionally take the weekends to see him, dabble on about more than my rants and now just share a portion of my life’s events to him, he may be my counsellor, but he means more than that, he’s a friend of mine, a sweet memory I will never forget, and I have come to share more and open up with him some time, we may be far apart now as I attend for adulthood, but I wish to accompany his messages sometimes like a pesky Cheshire, like a frozen time. With all love, respect and complete admission, I wish to talk to you again in person, and no, there are no goodbyes, just many “see you later”’s, I hope my presence are of meaning to him as it is to me.