ROSENGARTEN ALL INC

I hope this finds you well. How are you? I’m pretty well, more or less the usual things.

I am sitting on the train now. This is a journey of one hour and twenty-eight minutes. I'm not sure if I'll manage to finish writing it. I suddenly recalled that journey home, where we had been sitting on the bus for fifteen hours. Some people have already arrived at their stop; we are about to head to the next one. The girl sitting behind me said: In this moment as the bus moves forward, this continuous moment of motion, those farewells that seemed heavy just now somehow feel lighter as we keep moving forward.

There are many things I wish to tell, to share with you. I’m sorry i didn’t write you for months.

But in the past while, I haven’t been able to find that weightless moment, a feather-light moment to speak simply and calmly. Perhaps it’s because I’m unsure whether those ordinary, simple stories hold the same quality and weight of life for others as they do for me. So I want to try, on this journey, to feel the lightness she described.

During the past stretch of time, I have been going about my routine as usual, repeating certain tasks over and over. I keep breaking my own weakness again and again, rebuilding the house I want to build. I’ve gathered many stones left behind by those before me, in all their different shapes and weights, and the songs that have been sung over and over. It seems I want to be a collector and teller of stories. But who knows.

Speaking of stones…

Last month, I met an old friend. The day before we said goodbye, I personally handed him a letter—and a gift. In the letter, I wrote:

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Dear friend,

 

I am truly grateful for our meeting. Please let’s stay in touch. Tomorrow I need to continue my journey and start again. Thank you for entering my story, and thank you for letting me enter yours. These days, I’ve been amazed by everything happening around me. This stone comes from the first long hike I took with my companions in this place—it got stuck in the sole of my right shoe and was unintentionally brought home. There were two in total, and I want to share one with you. I hope it will be a special gift. I am in wonder of all the stories unfolding in the world at the same time. I’ve learned not to envy the stories—or the games—that I cannot take part in.People meet, part ways, and meet again, and I am in awe of this incredible force.

As I gave it to him, I held out the two stones in my hand. Neither of us noticed their differences— whether one was smoother or held more history seemed unimportant. He simply took one and gave me a strong, heartfelt hug.

If I had two more stones, I think I would give them to you as well.

The next day, we sat in his lovely, delightful garden, spending a simple afternoon—one I would happily tell others about again and again. I remember the paella was delicious, and the spinach cooked perfectly, and the sunlight reflecting off the glass table was dazzling.

This year, I’ve grown fond of repeatedly reading those straightforward stories and books. They seem closely connected to the present moment—a moment that belongs to everyone. Though sometimes, the me on the left protests loudly, “Narratives are always accompanied by fiction!” Then the me on the right responds just as loudly, “It’s okay; just believe in what you want to believe.” I’m grateful that, most of the time, I choose to go right. Yes, the right path.
Recently, I’ve been reading a book, though there are still many parts I want to return to again and again. The author mentions in the book, quite simply, that if a book she wants to read is too heavy or too thick, she would divide it into two—or even three—parts.I think that’s such a sensible approach.

The winter days have grown shorter. My bike light is quite heavy, and because I’m afraid it might be stolen, I always take it off. So I’ve started waiting until daylight to head out, which makes my backpack a little lighter. That day, I had a dream. In it, I laid out a hundred—or perhaps two hundred—A4 sheets completely flat on the gray linoleum floor, filling the long, narrow room. The sheets weren’t very different from one another; each carried the same weight. Though perhaps, due to printing, some were slightly lighter, some slightly heavier. I can’t say who created them—the images, objects, texts, packaging, unfinished drinks, empty bottles…

One night, my companions and I went on another adventure. That day, we were desperate to dance—or perhaps it was the nervousness and strangeness that came with the impending farewells. We all wanted the sensations of our bodies to mask our emotions. With no other choice, we became the only dancing creatures in that countryside bar.

Of course, at first we hesitated a bit, put off by the awful music, the smoke-filled terrace where people drank, and the teenagers and middle-aged men bragging. Then a girl led the way, cheering as she charged in. Forget it—we ran in after her.

We moved like a flock of drugged ducks, a parade of happy penguins, a herd of running deer, zebras frolicking in the sea—swaying to the terribly bad dance music. Around the dance floor, a few people were lounging in the corners, but they all picked up their phones to capture this spectacle maybe they had never seen before.

It was in that moment that I felt, for the first time, how wonderful it is to become a spectacle.

Lately, I’ve begun to hesitate, though I’m still lingering. I wonder if there’s always a need to create something “new.”

That day was noon, summer nearing its end. Everything seemed to grow greedy, and perhaps most people longed for certain moments to linger a little longer. But I suppose no one could truly succeed—when people choose to linger, they inevitably miss other equally important things.

The place my companions and I had agreed to meet was in another corner of the village; looking east from there, there was the city wall. The wall was made of countless bricks, each as long as an arm and as wide as a hand.

Only she and I met there. That time, we chose not to leave. My decision was to lie down on the spot. The asphalt road had been heated by the sun to scorching warmth. I couldn’t open my eyes at all—I could only see the reddish-orange beneath my eyelids. In those few minutes, I found myself thinking: who owns the authorship to this wall?

I rather presume it ought to comprise three parts: one belonging to those who built it. Were this a matter of centuries past, it would belong to those upon the ladders, those who hauled the stones up the mountain on their shoulders, and those who drew its sketches; another part to those who lean upon its shoulders through dawn and dusk, or lovers parting here, or children gathered in circles for games; Finally, it belongs to me, who remains here. And I also believe that by the city walls lives the Queen from the game. After enjoying her wine and the evening, she willingly removes her high heels and heavy robes, stands upon her ornate chair, and warmly agrees to take a group photograph for the children.

Actually, I had arrived at my stop long ago. One hour and twenty-eight minutes felt far too short to tell a complete story. I had a good day, met a friend, and talked about the things we want to continue together. I told her that sometimes I wish my packages could be lighter, and my mind could be lighter too. So now, I’m already on the train home, but there are still six minutes until my stop. I am utterly exhausted.

I forgot to tell you about my plant. Last month I finally brought home a pot of eucalyptus, bought at a market in the city where I live. The weather was lovely that day, and the stallholder was very friendly. He earnestly corrected my German pronunciation of “Eucalyptus” twice. Yes, I rather presumptuously thought my German was quite fluent, but there are still many mistakes I'm unaware of. But sadly, after two weeks without care, my first Eucalyptus eventually withered and died. My other two Monstera plants also grew weary from excessive nutrients after repotting. But anyway, they are slowly recovering their health.

I am now seated on the floor of the school terrace, leaning against the wall in a most comfortable position, trying to finish this letter. At midday in summer, this rooftop actually becomes quite warm. Facing east, it receives prolonged sunlight that lingers into the evening, retaining its residual heat. It is now 16:53, yet the bells of the distant church have been tolling for five minutes already—I cannot tell why. The weather feels somewhat overcast, but there is only one single cloud is visible overhead.

I hope you're keeping well. May your work bring you no troubles. Have you been running regularly lately? I miss every meal we shared back in university days. I’ve never met anyone who could eat twenty crabs in a single evening. I hope my lizard and your cat are still good friends.

I hope you're keeping well. I trust you're still pursuing the things you enjoy. I really miss the time when we were in high school together—the evenings during self-study when we would move our desks into the hallway and study together. How are the wedding preparations coming along? I'm very much looking forward to it – I've never been to a wedding before.

I wish you a good day and a fuller enjoyment of life.

I wish you could always find things you value, and value it for a few days , few months, or few years….

your friend

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