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Y al despertar de aquel sueño
(Upon waking from that sleep)
Pensaba en vos otra vez
(I thought of you once again)
Pues me olvidé de olvidarte
(For I forgot to forget you)
– Fernán Silva Valdéz
He often came back to the same place.
The tall tree was fragrant and beautiful, almighty and lively; as if it encompassed all that existed in the world.
As if all the living things were guarded by it.
A vast shade where one could find solace.
A blinding light where everything found its meaning.
It was surrounded by a dazzling green forest that the sunlight always turned golden, it glowed warmly until late in the afternoon and—even after the sun had set—fireflies lit all the way that led to that ancient tree and the worn-down pavilion next to it.
So desolate yet despairingly alive.
Untouched in its humbly elegance.
A haven that since time immemorial remained like a garden long ago forgotten.
Everyone in town knew about the “Tree of Oblivion”, his mother used to tell him about it as a little bedtime story that usually started like, “The tree of oblivion is where the lonely souls go in hope to find solace.”
It was said that an immortal met his soulmate under this very tree. Everyone would have a different version of this folktale; depending on the teller it would be a tad bit more romantic, it could maybe have a glimpse of comedy or a terrifying start, but the story of these lovers was always tragic and ended in the same way: the darling of that mighty immortal died.
In this way, he kept on visiting that same place in hopes of finding his beloved again. He didn’t mind the years he had to wait, he was patient and capable of enduring everything for them; neither the raging heat of summer nor the harshness of the biting winter could stop him. His mind was set into waiting for the other, always sure that they could yet again be reunited; wholeheartedly believing that the person deeply engraved in his bones, searingly sealed in his heart and guarded deep within his soul, would sooner or later find their way to that very same place in which they met one another.
Mo Ran’s mother had a fancy for another version.
In this one, after the loss of his beloved, the heartbroken immortal just lay against that tree day and night but his torn heart couldn’t stand such pain and, with his life having lost all meaning, finally died out of sadness. His soul merged with that old tree, the only one who had kept him company during those hard times.
“Mom, have you ever been there?”
This question his mother never answered, a shy smile adorned her small face as she leaned to kiss him goodnight with a whisper of “I love you” so soft and tender that it was able to erase the mere hint of an upcoming nightmare.
People believed that only the ones lost in life were able to find their way there.
Mo Ran always believed that it wasn’t necessary to be lost to find a place that once made someone happy.
He never knew if this legend was real, he didn’t even know which tree in his small town once inspired such a tale either but, as always, his questions hardly ever found an answer.
—
“ Are you okay?”
There’s no answer.
Mo Ran has nothing to say when Mingjing’s gentle eyes catch his own. This time, those clear, tranquil ponds where he always went to wash away his pain and his dirtiness, his loneliness and despair, aren’t able to soothe the acute feeling stabbing at his chest. A soft sigh is barely heard within the unlit, empty living room, a pair of arms suddenly trapping his tired body in a tender embrace. He can feel Mingjing’s lithe body against his own as if he’s desperately trying to give him some of his warmth.
But he feels nothing, not grief nor relief.
He just stands in the middle of the room, barely able to process anything happening around him. It’s like his feelings got buried inside him with no chance to ever leave, stuck down his throat like a fish bone choking him to death.
Time itself has stopped a good few days ago, since the very moment the doctor told him his mother wouldn’t be with him anymore. The old lady held a time-honed detached gaze, one that couldn’t even be reached by that slight hint of an empathetic smile. Her ascetic and scrawny hand was the only thing holding him so he wouldn’t crumble down in the same way the whole world around him did.
Now his mouth is dry, the tea over the table has gone cold a long time ago.
Just like himself.
Mingjing cups his face within his slightly-trembling hands, trying to anchor him to this very moment, trying to look for him in the sea of endless confusion that he let himself get lost in. So he just decides to sit Mo Ran’s numb, unresponsive body on the couch and somehow fixes it to have him lying over it; a thick quilt is quickly draped around his tired frame.
His friend decides to busy himself around the house, drawing the curtains open to let the last rays of sunlight in, trying to warm up the room a little with his mere presence. Mo Ran is able to hear clattering and distant noises in the kitchen, he knows Mingjing’s cooking skills aren’t quite remarkable, reason why Mo Ran was always the one taking care of their shared meals.
The thought of Mingjing fumbling around with pots and pans, trying to come up with something decent, is endearing to the point it moves his heart a little, but the food still goes almost untouched when the time of dinner comes. The lump in his throat doesn’t even let him break the deafening silence the room is drowning in, but he knows his friend understands when he puts his chopsticks aside and takes one of Mo Ran’s cold hands between his own, thumb soothingly rubbing his palm.
Mo Ran has yet to take off the funeral clothes from early this morning. However, Mingjing is nothing but patient, chiding him gently to take a shower while dexterously taking care of everything else.
They end up lying all huddled up in his small sofa, Mingjing spends the rest of the night with nimble fingers carefully treading through Mo Ran’s hair, sweet voice humming a mellow tune that finally lulls him to sleep.
And still, it does nothing to make the dreams stop.
But again, they never did.
—
Mo Ran’s eyes flutter open as the warm sunlight caresses his skin. It isn't new to find himself lying over this never-changing carpet of flowers; his fingers card through the fallen blossoms and clutch them tightly, nails slightly sinking into the damp soil.
Although it's always this same scenery that that appears so frequently, he still takes a second to slowly take in his surroundings. A gush of fresh air fills his lungs and clears his mind; blotches of bright sky painting blue the background of the swaying treetops in full bloom. The vivid chirping of birds almost makes him smile, almost—just almost—makes him forget that none of this is real, that nothing of this exists beyond his ridiculous and childish imagination... for he knows this place, but strangely, he does so just in dreams.
After so many years, he knows this dream just as much as he knows he has to breathe to keep on living.
He knows it as well as the certainty of a new tomorrow.
Mo Ran stands in the middle of the forest, black robes fitting just right over his body with the clean fabric nicely caressing his skin. The distinct path he’s been walking for years waits ahead yet again: for him to finally breathe easily, for him to finally walk back... home .
The soft soil muffles the noise of his boots as he makes his way through the towering trees, blossoms still raining from above in a flimsy dance. The floral-infused breeze is enough to make him feel dizzy, inebriated.
Everything that surrounds him seems to revolve around the elegance of flowers, as if everything that gets to live or die just depends on them alone, in this place that’s always immersed in the vast eternity of spring.
His thoughts stop when the quiet stroll takes him to the same old, thatched cottage where, as usual, the door is wide open. A silent invitation accompanied by a rich smell of food that fills his heart with fondness and leaves his whole body buzzing with content and something akin to... love .
And it’s not strange.
Mo Ran inhales deeply and just waits for the very specific moment that always comes in the form of a pair of wiry arms tightly encircling his waist, a face tenderly nuzzling his back. Every action love-suffused and intoxicating.
“I was looking for you.”
He doesn’t answer, for he knows this is nothing but a hopeless dream that always ends, but he can't help to smile anyway. The feeling of actually being wanted, looked for by someone is so tempting that it makes him burst with excitement. He drowns in a feeling so real and so deep that he finds hard to reach the surface and not suffocate. It’s actually hard for him to believe how he never felt anything close to this anywhere apart from here.
In the moments of domestic bliss that follow, Mo Ran never ever gets to clearly see the other’s face and never gets to call his name as tenderly as the other calls for his own. These things feel so deeply engraved in his body and soul that, if he didn’t know any better, they could almost pass as a distant memory.
He can swear that he spent so many years of his life trying to disentangle himself from this painful imagery—from the surrealism of it all—that he ended up trying to find someone whose face could fit this, who could be worthy of this uncontrollable stream of deep emotion. But at the end, these dreams ended up consuming every part of his mind, to the point that the only thing he wished for was a person; the one that could own this, the one that could complete the missing pieces of this hopeless fantasy. The one that could wake him up from this never-ending stream of scenes that were fake yet felt so real.
Everything felt like he was bound to wait for ever, to long for something unknown, to always feel sourly incomplete .
And even when these dreams kept him company for so many years, he has to say that they never have a happy ending, because he’s Mo Ran and life hardly ever treats him so kindly.
The continuous and easy stream of the dream’s narrative always changes at some point, like a river flowing into a tumultuous sea and merging with it: very calmly one minute, chaos disrupting in the next. So he goes from happily spending time with a white-robed someone and an annoying ball of fur to finding himself restrained and deeply hurt.
His chest now aches terribly, almost as if his heart is being torn out, a heavy storm soaking every inch of his almost passed out body. Water gathers on his brows and streams furiously down his face. The roaring of people afar mingles with thunder; like Heaven and Earth are suddenly cheering for his fall, asking for every piece of himself he can give, demanding his life and his very soul.
And yet, a pair of arms embrace him again: giving him a warmth he always longed for, offering a light in the seemingly-endless darkness, granting him that small ounce of sacred redemption he always felt himself asking for.
The same peaceful voice from the start is fated to find him at the very end, trembling with emotion, bleeding every inch with thick, dark and poisoned blood that stains everything around, “I love you.”
Words keep echoing in his head, “Please forgive me.”
“Don’t leave me, wake up.”
“Wake up.”
—
“Wake up!”
And his eyes open.
Mingjing’s worried face appears in front of him, hands holding a cold, damp cloth to thoroughly clean the sweat out of his now-feverish forehead.
Again, neither of them can find the will to say anything. The lamp at the corner of the living room tints the place in a soft orange hue. On his way to the kitchen, Mingjing opens the windows a bit for him to cool down; the sound of cicadas is no longer heard within October’s slightly colder nights; smell of grass and dew impregnate the gushes of cool breeze.
Outside, the dark sky stares back at him like a hole ready to swallow him whole.
His friend’s footsteps wake him up from his daze, Mingjing appears again with two mugs of hot tea in his hands and,s he places them over the low living table, takes a seat again by his side.
It seems like after thinking about it, he considers it’s time for him to finally break the silence. His voice is low enough to almost go unheard, “Are they… back?”
“Mn?”, he hopes deep in his heart that Mingjing doesn't go on with this, but the other instantly repeats, “Are they back? You know… the dreams…”
Mo Ran sighs, he hasn’t moved an inch from the moment he sat on the couch where he’s still hunched over, elbows rest over his thighs as his sweaty palms anxiously rub his stinging eyes. He doesn’t want to have this conversation; not now or ever, but as he looks at the dancing fog created by the steaming hot tea, he still mutters, “I don’t think they’d ever left.”
Mingjing presses his lips tight, the “You should see a doctor” crawling its way to the tip of his tongue, but in the end, he has the presence of mind not to say it. Instead, he offers, “We live in quite a nice place, wouldn’t it be good to… to… ” He doesn’t know how to continue without making Mo Ran snap at him, clearing his throat he continues, “... Maybe it would be nice to take a stroll in the forests every now and then… It—it helps.”
Mo Ran’s tired eyes double-check the other’s face, his lips softened in a hopeful smile that almost offers an apology. In the end, he can’t blame him for not knowing what he’s even offering as a solution. Deep down, he still has the mind to acknowledge that he really looks quite deranged, all like someone who could indeed make use of fresh air or, yeah, maybe a therapist. His voice is toneless when he whispers a small, “Okay.”
But Mingjing still doesn’t take the lifeline he's throwing to let this matter go, “I’m worried about you.”
“You’re always worried about something, aren’t you?” He sighs, his fingers reach a lost strand of hair to put it back behind Mingjing’s flushed ear. The dark circles under his eyes and the paleness of his thin face make him feel guilty, “It’s okay, I said I would do it, didn’t I? You’re a good friend, I—I know what you mean.”
“Okay…” If Mingjing sounds unconvinced, Mo Ran doesn’t mention it. The other wraps his arms around his shoulders nevertheless, hugging him tightly and even his voice shakes a little when he mutters, “Take care, I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”
His friend sounds just so tiny and broken that he feels how remorse starts rabidly gnawing at his bones like a desperate and starved beast. Mo Ran hugs him back; at the end of the day, Mingjing is the only one he has left.
—
His thoughts are plenty and boundless.
But now they’re constantly being drowned by the squeaking of his worn-down bike, wheels roughly bumping in and out of potholes on the gravel road. Dark green and constantly moving scenery flanks his sides while a limpid, fresh breeze gushes by, clearing his thoughts and emptying his mind as it tangles his hair and softly sways his clothes.
On a gloomy Sunday morning, he has decided to take Mingjing’s piece of advice.
The emptiness of his house felt more oppressive and unforgiving than yesterday’s and could be considered even more tiring and draining than the day before. He found himself waking up within the somber living room, feeling detached and lost. Unfathomable grief made his chest feel heavy, but awfully empty at the same time; the pressure aching in his heart clogged up all the way from his chest to his throat, but it wasn’t even enough to make him cry. He couldn’t find a single way out, not a plan B or any exit to relieve the sorrow and despair prompted by the heaviness of loss and utmost loneliness.
His house suddenly looked like a place specially made to make him feel estranged, like a suit tailored to exactly fit his measures; in the gloominess of those rooms he could no longer recognize a single trace of the place he grew up in, he couldn’t find the last traces of those fading memories.
Everything was drowned in black and whites — resembling an old picture, a framed moment in time that no longer existed in the present. Morning sunlight filtered through the semi-closed blinds, the strident singing of birds mingled with the neighborhood’s children chattering outside; inside, the clock on the wall still ticked and the old fridge buzzed intermittently. These noises carried a solid meaning: life still went on no matter how lonely and stuck he felt.
Still, it was like life could only bloom on the outside, sprouting on each of those corners and places he couldn’t reach, and not a single bit of liveliness dared to enter, to touch what was inside again, for deep behind the closed doors all of it might wither and die.
Deep down, he knew it wasn’t true. He knew that if something tried to put just a little bit of life inside, he maybe could start again.
As he lay on the floor glancing at the ceiling, he understood that he couldn’t be again like the careless youth of his past and, even though he was still fairly young, he never dared to think he would have to fend for himself so early in life.
Another bump on the road wakes him up from his daze.
And it takes him a bit of effort to stabilize the bike not to fall to the ground.
It could be said that this was a solitary path that no one cared for and no one frequently used; where weeds and wildflowers took root and flourished everywhere you could lay your eyes on. In summer, this place was bursting with the sound of cicadas accompanying the muggy weather, whereas in winter no sound could be heard, the faintest crack of a dried branch able to scare countless flocks of birds.
The scattered warmth of sunlight caresses his cheeks, and it’s the slightly cool breeze what takes away the remains of his straying thoughts. Above, the gloomy sky dyes everything in pale grays and bright whites; the landscape is as blinding as surreal.
As of lately, his very choice of going out could also be considered kind of surreal.
Out in the open, abandoned lots of forest fill the place and narrow, almost-unnoticed paths show up every now and then. Most of them were opened by people a long time ago for them to take small strolls around, for youngsters to hang out in big groups or a refreshing escapade, for those in need of a quiet spot to just sit and spend time by themselves, or for families to spend leisure time with their kids.
Those were pastimes long-ago left aside by most, since the town got a bit bigger with more tea shops, libraries and small restaurants that kept young people and working families entertained. Closer to everyone than any forest — which you could only reach by an arduous riding through a rough, solitary path — could ever be.
Today he’s looking for the small track he used to walk through as a kid. The one his mother knew best, the one on which, hand in hand, she usually led him deep into the forest, where a fairly open space was surrounded by dazzling greens and glittering yellows… where they could usually have quality time and share a small, homemade lunch. That quiet place that always smelled like flowers, fresh grass and endless happiness.
Was it the fourth path near that big rock?
Or was it the previous one by the old, rusted traffic sign?
He doesn’t know and he can’t remember.
So it’s in the start of a Sunday morning that he enters the forest, tired and lost with a state of mind that weighs more than the meek bites of food he bought in a small stall before parting. The weather feels warm and almost gentle, embracing him tenderly, but it’s not enough to defrost the heavy glaciers formed within his chest.
Birds no longer sing when Mo Ran roams through the unclear path. He doesn’t walk with any purpose or meaning but with an empty mind and limbs that make him move in an almost robotic manner. The only noise apart from the branches cracking under his feet are his constant breathing and the dull thumps of his heart against his ribcage. After an hour-long walk the scenery that welcomes him makes him stop in his tracks.
A sight that’s enough to make him breathless.
The trees around him now swing at the light wind’s rhythm like a carefully-arranged and perfectly-tuned song. A surprised gasp leaves his body when he’s able to spot the single tree that’s in the middle of a glade, standing proudly by itself with a full curtain of willows that glimmer intermittently in every sway. There’s a worn-down, but still prettily-cared-for pavilion not too far at its side, the grass below stained by a colorful sea of wild flowers.
Everything around him looks like some kind of a fairytale that sparkles a faint glow all over the place, making it seem breakable and surreal as if it could disappear any moment now. The sight makes his eyes shine with new meaning.
It feels like something clicks inside his chest.
A feeling, a heartbeat.
And every piece suddenly falls into place.
An electrifying connection pulses through his veins and makes him go a little bit weak on the knees, and entranced, as if he’s suddenly being pulled by a magnet, he goes to the base of that large tree on a quiet saunter.
He can feel his eyes prickling with tears he doesn’t want to let fall, ‘cause he knows if he starts crying now he won’t stop anytime soon, but still, a choked whimper leaves his throat and the endless stream of his restrained feelings can’t be contained anymore inside his chest. A desperate and helpless bawl that comes from somewhere deep inside him echoes through the empty place making his entire body and soul shock with sobs.
So he just cries, screams and weeps while lying over that vast tree that embraces him as his only witness for everything that won’t ever come back, for everything that he won’t ever feel again.
And it’s in the early afternoon of a Sunday that exhaustion finally makes him go limp, heartache barely tamed as his eyelids try to stay open, to no avail.
—
For years, it was the same recurring dream that had him waking up with a dreading feeling of loneliness.
This time, the dream is different.
Around, the forest is submerged in dark purples and blues; the bright moon high in the sky makes trees and grass glow in jade-white as if they were suddenly covered by the first frost of winter. A warm body is holding his own closely, affectionately cuddling him like a small child. The now-conscious Mo Ran has to close his eyes again out of fear of this sudden, streaking change.
A soft hum rumbles in the chest of the one behind him and so he stays still. This time, it’s not the voice of the man he can recognize, but a high-pitched one that sounds tender and achingly sweet.
When he decides to look up, it’s a familiar face that meets his own; his mother is the one lying against the very same tree he fell asleep over, with Mo Ran’s upper body over her lap, and he meets her eyes, her soft hands stop running through his hair to hold his face tenderly.
He can feel tears pricking again at the corners of his eyes, his hands desperately trying to reach for her under the dangling willows, but her gentle eyes look at him and her lips move in a soft smile, her voice is carried by the wind echoing in every corner of this place, “Mo Ran… you know? The tree of oblivion is where the lonely souls go in hope to find solace...”
It spreads like a blissed chanting creating a golden stream of light that turns everything in blinding oranges and yellows.
And at this moment, it’s like he reached the place where everything started.
—
The gentle breeze whistles and whispers in his ears and makes the leaves sing at its rhythm. His face is grazed softly by the light warmth of the autumnal sun, a clear sign that it’s not dark anymore and his heart thrums vividly against his ribcage.
As his eyes open, a confused pair of sharp yet gentle ones look back at him.
A breath is stuck in his throat.
Those eyes are deep as if they hold the weight of other lives, dark as if they’ve been created by a thousand pieces from different times. They—deep and full of sense—are almost like they’ve been looking for him for a long time, maybe as long as his own were looking for them.
“Are you okay?”
He’s startled by the words, but also by the underlying layers of concern and softness on the other’s voice, sweet and unsullied as the first sip of fragrant, cold tea in the oppressing heat of summer. The air that fills his lungs feels now pure and gentle, strangely bathing him with a feeling of ease that lifts the stone that seemed to be placed over his chest, erasing the oppressiveness that was restlessly choking him.
Mo Ran can’t think of anything else, even when scrutiny surpasses surprise and the other’s lips close on a thin line and sharp brows furrow on a deep frown, he can’t stop looking. Lips parted and suddenly agitated, breath ragged like he had run all the way from another world to this actual moment.
“You…” The other patiently waits for Mo Ran’s brain to put itself together, for his choked up sentences to finally make some sense, “I— kn…” No, that feels wrong, he’s certainly never seen this person. He would never let a face so beautiful be forgotten by his muzzled, good-for-nothing brain.
The man doesn’t understand what he tries to say, a faint blush rests on top of his high cheekbones coloring his jade-like skin with embarrassment and uncertainty, like he might suddenly run away like a startled cat, without a single look back.
“Why are you here? Who are you?”, he blurts.
“What do you mean? I live here…” His gentle voice mumbles, but as Mo Ran’s about to answer a wet tongue is suddenly licking all over his face, damp puffs of breath making him sneeze. A surprised gasp is followed by a thundering high-pitched scream, “Goutou! Stop! No! What are you doing!?” The man’s arms are now full of an over-energetic ball of fur that barks and barks at him with excitement, tail wagging with no control.
“I’m sorry… he doesn’t get to see people frequently… I guess… he’s a bit excited.” the other scrunches his nose, an attempt at a helpless smile barely showing at the corner of his red lips.
The other looks so cute that Mo Ran can feel hot blood spreading all over his face, embarrassment making him blurt a desperate, “It’s okay!” One hand tries to reach for him as he uses the other to help himself stand up, almost scaring both human and puppy out of their wits, “It's okay, I just… I'm lost, I got lost —that is.”
“Is that so?” The man scans his face, but it seems like he can’t find what he was looking for when he assesses his body up and down and suddenly flushes, face now hiding behind the small dog in his arms.
The situation turns kind of awkward, so he can just mumble a soft “Yeah, I promise.” The man in front of him seems like he can’t suddenly look at him again, and Mo Ran wishes that he could just disappear or be swallowed down by the soil. He still doesn’t want the other to leave, this is the longest conversation he’s had with another person in what feels like years, he hasn’t felt this light and carefree in, well, forever. So he can only say, “Hello, I’m Mo Ran.”
The other doesn’t answer for seconds that strain a tad bit too long, but finally sighs and says, “Chu Wanning.”
“Chu Wanning,” he repeats, tasting the sweetness those syllables evoke in his mouth. It makes something feel just right when he listens to it and his body shakes overwhelmed by the sudden need to repeat it again, and again, and again.
He doesn’t notice that he’s been spacing out when he hears Wanning clearing his throat; he might be quite the sight now, all scruffy for having slept outside. He’s suddenly aware of the stark difference between him and Wanning’s pristine looks. Mo Ran avoids the other’s eyes, the fading blush on his cheeks returning in a raging red under his skin.
Wanning raises an eyebrow and repeats, “So?”
“What?” Mo Ran squeaks.
The other meets the end of his patience, he huffs before turning his back at him and starts walking, “Are you coming with me or not?”
He can’t explain the size of the smile that breaks in his face and threatens to make his cheeks hurt for weeks, but he just grabs his bag and rushes those few large steps that keep him away from Wanning. A sudden twinge in his chest makes Mo Ran feel that he can’t ever let him disappear from his sight.
A strange sensation he can’t identify blooms in his chest, fluttering its wings tentatively like a newly-born butterfly. His stomach tingles with a pleasant feeling and his body drowns in a sense of accomplishment he hardly ever felt before, as if he finally had found what he was looking for after a long, hard journey.
On a pleasant autumn morning, looking at Chu Wanning’s distancing back, guiding his way through the deep forest as flimsy leaves fall all around them, it’s quite strange how… how he can say that from now on, dreams won’t ever come back.