Something is starting to move. I don't know what, but it is. It took years for me to know what I want in my life. Is this it? I flip the page and close the book. How about this? Another page, and then I close the book again.

What do I want to do? I want to begin. In the beginning, there was the end. Do you know what I mean? If I'm going to start, I need to know where it ends. And I'm in search of a story that doesn't end with death. But every story ends with death, right?

True, and yet there is always an exception to the rule.

What I'm looking for is a miracle. The one that cannot be imagined. The one that is real and exists without violence or madness. I don't mind the story being mediocre, as long as it's mine and true. I need to live it, feel it, walk through it step by step, and most of all, love it. My life is not a performance. It doesn't need to be recorded by a camera. My value doesn't depend on the whole world watching.

Then why record it? Even in my diary?

To pass it on—the feeling of being alive.

To pass it on to someone looking for the same thing, like a dandelion sending off its fluff. Catch me, catch me—I'm alive, I am alive!

Today while I was working, I went to the bathroom and heard a lecture from another room.

"See, so if there are no rules, there is no freedom. Freedom cannot and will not exist without rules."

The man sounded so assertive, almost frantic. If I were the student listening to him, I would have felt quite frightened. What would happen if I spoke against him? He would admonish me, as if I were attacking what his whole life was built upon: a hell of a lot of nothing. And whoever questions it is a sinner.

Captured in a small room that doesn't get much recognition, he must feel like freedom is a myth—that we're bound to fail if we dare to think we're born free. The only way is to master all the rules first, and then perhaps we could feel a hint of freedom. Such a cliché, not something you should keep pressing as if it's illuminating. As most people say, Picasso mastered drawing, and that's why he was able to deconstruct it.

But really?

If someone could draw as freely as Picasso from scratch, born free and drawing lines according to the way they wished without training, I wouldn't mind them being bad at drawing at all—I would love their painting as much as Picasso's. Maybe more. What I felt when I started appreciating Picasso was absolute freedom. He freed paintings from technique, just like Cézanne.

And since I got a belated response from the painter, I decided to give it a chance and meet him. He said it's platonic, meaning I could let my guard down if I was questioning his interest. I didn't even mention it, so I guess he assumed right. An intuitive soul who can speak without words—perhaps because he's a painter. So I could now flip the page, after two years of silence, and initiate a conversation in another language.