The Impossible Dream

There is melancholy in the air. I am listening to Radiohead, and it feels like it should be raining outside, drops forming on the window pane, gathering, trickling down in haphazard streaks, colliding then molding to the sill beyond my vision where it all collects, held for moment by its own tension before breaking free and diving into the wet, musky soil of the garden below.

But it is not raining. In fact, it is a gorgeously bright sun-filled day, brighter and clearer than any other day I've seen in the city of Taipei. The diamond brilliance of the day is also burning the air that we breath and for once, there is no humidity clinging to our bodies. But the effusive sadness still lingers, heavy.

Inside the gleaming concrete building there have been a constant stream of politics being played, prejudices thrown against closed doors, misunderstanding on professional and cultural levels that though subtle are nevertheless available to anyone willing to see the truth behind the thin veneer. I write these accusations with guilt, but can it be false if a close friend has decided to leave rather than further injure herself in this house of polite impudence?

So, I am sad. And like her, I am tired of seeing the faults. Our castle of sand will stand in the late afternoon sun, still surrounded by playful children and families that watch on with pride at their joys. When the source of day dips below the horizon, the crowds depart, the moon will rise and entice the foamy tides to shore. Where then will our sand castle be?

I'm now listening to Masters at Work's Pienso en Ti (Thinking of You). If nothing else, the experience will be learned and let modified. The breathless air forgotten, the piercing light of that single bulb shaded, and we hold onto all that was good.