Original Habitat

Harajuku – はらじゅく- 原宿

原宿, the two characters, literally means “Original Habitat”

It is a strawberry milkshake that smoothly blends history and youth, culture and identity, and pink hearts and gothic skulls together. It melts on your tongue, leaving a bittersweet residue, and rides down your throat, stirring tropical sensations throughout your veins.

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On Staying Young


(pc to friend)

I leaned into the hard, uncomfortable seat, swinging my feet listlessly, thinking of and looking at nothing specific, not feeling strongly towards any emotion. The soles of my feet hurt from all the walking we did today at Disney.

Scenes of the city swooshed by the window as the subway sped through the rails.

Just right next to me, my friend, Q, is going through a period of hysteria.

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Daily Prompt: Calm | beautiful things

We are always rushing to unmeaningful places, always doing unmeaningful things, talking about dreams, dreaming about talks. And after we wake to see the barren reality of our unaccomplished selves, we go back to dreaming and talking and doing and rushing and not-thinking. Never ending.

But when talks run out of topics (and they do) and dreams expire out of date (and they do, too), we then are forced to pull the brakes, to look around, and to find nothing but the ashes of our past, of our youthful ignorance, and the pieces of hazy memories of perhaps the one or two worthy snippets of our life. And that’s about all that is left of us.

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I sauntered down the aisle of a supermarket: pass the greens, pass the meats, pass the dairies, and even pass the snacks. I focused on getting to the cashier counter so I can go home and finish today’s work, prepare for tomorrow’s work and maybe anticipate for the day after tomorrow’s work.

Something made me stop in my tracks, and I looked around: I was in the instant food aisle. Strange, I don’t eat instant food anymore, these unhealthy things that were warned to be cancerous and deadly, so why did I stop. I scanned the aisles and found it: right there, in the bright red package, a cheap korean ramen pack.

My mind fell back, and the world seemed to blur, I seem to back in my youthful college years, living in a dorm with the best people.

I tried to remember, and then I saw.
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“Red Cooked Meat”

It was that time of the year when women rushed around in the majestic kitchen while men played mahjong and gambled and smoked and talked of big things that will never be carried out. I stood in the middle of the kitchen and my mother, my aunts, my relatives rushed around me, each busy with their own doings. I snuggled tighter in the old, bulky army jacket that my dad grandfather stole from the army when he ran away from the 100% fatality rate battle-front against the Japanese and came home. I can still smell the remnants of his cowardice, but I didn’t care, my blood seemed to be frosting up from the ubiquitous presence of the piercing winds. These winds always find a way to climb up from the legs of my pants, to attack the holes in my knitted sweaters, dive in from my neck and nestle around in my collar bones. My ears.. or do I even have ears? I can’t feel them.

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