Pink, Blue, Purple Under the Code

Light pink, blue, purple pencils
by the motorcycle shop door,
typhoon rain drummed the tin roof,
bee-buzz rolling through the storm.

I ran out in wet socks;
engine oil hung warm in the air.
Mum dried my hair
while thunder rattled everywhere.

At school I watched the children cry,
so I cried because they did,
then learned Mandarin in days
by reading faces.

Seventy-six taught me memory;
one red envelope taught rank.
At the shore, one little shoe sank—
I caught it from the spray,
heard “thank you,”
and felt joy arrive.

Match-smoke stung under Dad’s desk;
bubble wrap went pop-pop-pop.
Three checks on the schoolbag zipper,
colors lined from light to dark.

Rules said “don’t trace”; tracing won.
Adults bent what they had taught.
I studied every seam
between the rule and what got bought.

Sometimes I fought, sometimes hid,
sometimes read the room all wrong,
learning how the systems moved along.

By thirteen, meaning slipped from view.
When one method broke,
I tried another route.

I make the road while I’m moving,
light the screen when maps go black.
No fixed shape, no conclusion—
I test, I turn, I change the track.

Pink, blue, purple under the code,
hands in the work, eyes on the road.
I don’t need the answer before I start;
I make the road while I’m moving.

Ten-thirty nights, school-gate mornings,
memorizing line by line.
Twenty-nine in math,
despite an hour every day—fine.

Six or seven pens could turn to fog
across a desk,
so I counted three, six, nine;
years later, four and four worked best.

Not a failure—
just a different interface.

Accounting fit like borrowed clothes.
I reached the graduation gate,
dressed and ready,
then chose not to enter.

Europe widened the world;
Iowa altered the frame.

Meow Meow, grumpy-soft,
made the room feel right.
Calligraphy brush across her cheeks,
fur in rooftop light.

Medicine she hated,
sun she loved.
“I love you,” every day.

When October stopped her breathing,
grief kept its own time.
Her shape left the floor;
tenderness stayed in my hands.

Then one painting cracked the lens:
Dunhuang dancers crossed the frame.

At forty, mountain looked like mountain;
red became more than a word.

Oil and acrylic, wax and wire,
clay and lacquer, glass and flame,
laser heat, UV ink,
coffee, fragrance—
everything became a game.

UI, motion, WordPress, code;
I learned by making things collide.

No single profession had to fit me.
Image, system, scent and thought—
let them meet.

I liked hard things more with age:
the puzzle, pressure,
“make it work.”

I make the road while I’m moving,
light the screen when maps go black.
No fixed shape, no conclusion—
I test, I turn, I change the track.

Pink, blue, purple under the code,
hands in the work, eyes on the road.
I don’t need the answer before I start;
I make the road while I’m moving.

Australia opened under me:
skydiving, and my pulse went still.
At the range, noise cracked;
inside, quieter still.

Cold shelter floors,
whisky, one screen lie—
time showed people clearly.

Then Dad choked at dinner.
Arms locked, Heimlich,
breath came through.

Days later: mansion tour,
three thousand dollars.
He asked my brother too.

I didn’t want the ticket,
which improved the joke by miles:

“I just saved your life—seriously?
Not worth three thousand?”

I smiled.

No wound, no debt;
just timing dry and grim.
Family math writes dark comedy.
I’m happy to heckle it.

In twenty-five I built a website
from thoughts that wouldn’t stay:
art, reflection, children’s inner worlds—
write before cache clears away.

I’d reread a page and laugh,
“Wait, I wrote this?”

Apparently so.

The site became a lab
for questions I could grow:

Can art make awareness tangible?
Can learning sharpen how we see?
Can education build discernment
without deciding who to be?

January twenty-six:
one school said no.

White screen.
Closed route.
New data.

I looked again.

Art-based healing educational methods
felt closer to the question underneath.

June thirtieth:
last workday.

Click.

July:
Mongolia entered frame.

August:
Taiwan—
same coordinates,
not the same inner game.

October may bring full-stack training;
admission still is not yet known.

Either way, the site keeps changing.
Curiosity codes its own.

I make the road while I’m moving,
even when the map won’t answer back.

No fixed shape, no conclusion—
I test, I turn, I change the track.

Pink, blue, purple under the code,
bee-hum rain beneath the road.

A brush on fur,
a shoe from foam,
three-six-nine,
then four-and-four.

I don’t need the answer before I start;
I make the road while I’m moving.

April twenty-seven sits ahead,
penciled, not yet lived.

Maybe the training ends on time.
Maybe another question shifts the grid.

Maybe I build with code.
Maybe I teach through art.

Maybe those were never
separate roads.

On the right,
the screen stays white.

On the left,
morning hits the desk.

The cursor blinks.
Click… click… clack.
Tap-tap… click.

keyboard clicking in the dark

Fade out…..….