the man who owns an eternal garden

There's a man who lives on the ground floor,
he has a lovely apartment with a beautiful garden on the back.
He loves his garden,
so much that he can't bare thinking of anything happening to his plants or flowers or grass.
that would make him very sad.

so he made the garden eternal,
so nothing would ever change there.

Well, not with magic, of course,
he replaced all his plants and flowers and grass,
with plastic plants, flowers and grass.

and they look beautiful,
as if they were real.

he's looked all over the world for all kinds of different plastic gardening stuff,
he's got those beautiful pink flamingo,
and those fake grass that are so green it always feels like spring.
He's also got those adorable garden gnomes that smiles like sunshine dipped in honey,
that stands around the grass protecting the eternal garden.
he's got all kinds of plastic trees, and plastic birds,
he even has the sound track for all kinds of forest and jungles that he can choose.
sometimes he's in India in a jungle,
sometimes he's in the Amazon, rain forest

and it is beautiful
as if it was real.

With a tint of sunlight reflecting on the surface of the plastic,
the garden looks like it is covered in glitter.

he made the garden eternal,
so nothing would ever change there

and it is beautiful
as if it was real.

.

the guy who collects empty books

There is a guy who lives on the floor under,
his place is small, and packed.
Packed with books,
books that he collected through out the years he's lived.
but they are no ordinary books that we think of,
they are books that are empty inside, blank books.
you know, the kinds that people buy to sketch or write in.

He travels a lot, he goes to all kinds of places, and where ever he sees a pretty blank book,
he could not resist to buy one and bring it home to his collection.
He has all kinds of empty books,
some are hand stitched,
some are hard cover,
some have lines,
some have boxes,
some have fabric covers,
some have leather jackets,
they are all blank books.

and he doesn't write in them, nor draw in them.
he just keeps them in his place,

on the shelves,
on the floor,
on the table,
in his room,
under his bed.

they are all empty books.


when I finally got a chance to take a glance at his collection,
it's fascinating how beautiful these books are, they are from all kinds of places in the world, made by all kinds of different ways. ready to be written in or doodled in,
but they are just quietly sitting on those shelves, laying on those tables.
so blank, and so empty.

I couldn't resist but to ask the question.

"Why don't you write in them? nor sketch in them?"

He looked at those books, those empty books,
and said:
"There's all kinds of books in the world out there, written by all kinds of people, some with illustration some with photos. All filled with words and thoughts of those people."

He gently takes down one of the leather bind books, "keeping each of these empty books on the shelves, with every page that's in it, is like I stole a page from that vast world of books. Somehow in that world now, is missing these pages that I stole,
I stole those pages from those writers,
from those thoughts to be written in them.

and they are mine,

somehow, me keeping these pages here gives me all those empty space, and I feel safe,
because I feel like I have a place to exist.
I could write in them, or draw in them, or I can do anything I see fit to them.
It doesn't matter what I do to them,
owning them makes me feel safe,
like I have a place.
those are my pages."

and those are his empty pages in his empty books he collected.
those are his pages.