Ruijia Zeng

    We choose to take the road where no step has trodden black.

    We paddle a boat in fog, following the cliff for guidance.

    We build our own nest high in the secret branches of the air.

    We go to sea and swim against the tide with our guts hanging out

    on a winter’s morn, on a stormy day.

    We know it isn’t a question of what ought or ought not to be

    or what is useful and what is not useful.

    Sometimes we are in fear of love,

    of being loved, of being asked for love.

    We are worried that our weird idea once lost is lost forever.

    We are too anxious to fix on the hour, or the spot, or the words.

    We often look at our watch to show we are in a hurry to get nowhere.

    We have already been in the middle of path before we know we are allowed to start.

    We like to immerse ourselves in our pride and prejudice, sense and sensibility.