It’s my first time to run in autumn. Crisp red-orange fallen leaves lie under my feet; my legs won’t stop moving; church bells ring nearby; all is music that pulls me closer and closer to where the sun shines, gently, complementing the cool breeze, all of nature that makes autumn autumn.

I run on fallen autumn leaves or rough sandy walkways but never the grass. The grass is too beautiful to step on. Towering trees rise above them; jets cut the vast clear sky.

It’s as if I haven’t run in decades. I run longer, farther, on and on towards the light. Flocked doves fly off instantaneously as I turn a corner, as if dreading me like a species with a grave disease. In a few metres, I slow down where my little nephew is, who may clap my hand in a high-five only sideways, as if to mark a milestone of a full run, or may fake cry on me pleading me to stop because that’s how toddlers communicate their discomfort about new things they see.

It’s my first time to run in autumn.

I’ve run once in winter.

It’s but natural to dream of spring.


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About hellopenville

Writing is my one true north. (The other is eating spaghetti. I make the best pastas in the whole world I swear!) I have been writing since age 10. I remember being in another school a lot because of Campus Journalism contests. I was a grade-school copyreader, headline-writer, and feature writer, who emerged to be a college editorial writer and eventually a TV news writer. However, I have always been an insecure artist. These constant condescending thoughts always stopped me from creating: “No one would read this.” “This has been written before and therefore no one would read this.” “This is not interesting enough and therefore no one would read this.” “This is not relevant, or factual, or trendy enough and therefore no one would read this.” But I learned to risk to write even if no one reads it, than not to have written anything at all. To resist writing is to resist truth itself, to betray that which comes freely to you when you do not allow it to be manifested through you. I didn’t think writing was serious work. But every time I thought about writing, it would make me nervous. It would rattle me and frighten me. I would shake the ground under me. Aren’t dreams like that too? Read more at


Europe, Holland, Writing


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