How It Started

It was beating desperately in my heart. The beating of the desperate heart was similar to the primitive beating of the natives of a remote tribe by tapping percussion instruments to communicate with their neighboring villages. I could certainly hear the call of something irresistible that derives from within me.

The beckons of the call beckoned to me in tune with all the streets at that time, in the gaze of the shining sun by day and the breath of the generous moonlight by night. The wind in the street endangered every cell of my heart. The players of the call played me in Forte, sometimes loosely with Andante.

Listening to the call, I thought maybe I could die happily buried in some unknown hot soil in the forest. I thought I would be happy to fall into a deep sleep, listening to the song of the wind blowing into the forest, melting comfortably into a handful of damp ocher in the forest, getting out of the strange fight to live. It was an irresistible gesture from the orchestra maestro. It was an irresistible call.

My jouney

from Miami to Motreal took 1 yr.

1,700 miles in a straight line on the map alone. The distance from Miami in the southeastern United States to Montreal in southeastern Canada, which takes three to four days to sleep, eat and run hard by car, and four hours by air plane. I accepted the call's journey and did not set a time target when I took the first step. I didn't even know how long the journey would take, whether I would arrive at my destination alive, how hard it would be, how much regret and lonely night I would face.

Now that I think about it, the journey from Miami to Montreal, the years, and the pilgrimage of the call, I might have wanted to weave myself. If there's nothing more to squeeze out, wouldn't it be a bad idea to fall asleep while listening to the cool wind?

I had drawn a few lines to a diary that would fill my twilight in the evening of the journey, but the idea of writing for the journey was felt to me at the time by artificial luxury. Today's journey was filled for miles and there was no travel record of where I arrived and what I ate. However, it was a vague idea, but I felt like writing steadily. Such ideas became a motivation for Writing and Creating Digital Art to fill this space, 13e13e.com.