We Are Zhuang Zhou, and We’re Butterfly

The first journal in this rose-colored French-made notebook will be a free-writing session artifact.

At this moment, regardless of the extreme unease of cold-ish symptoms, the nib dances swimmingly on the friction-free paper.

Before this session, I was reading one or two poems from some newly arrived poem collections. Once again, I observed how much the West is obsessed with Japanese art and culture — multiple occurrences of Japanese literature references showing here and there. Just like the Arabic communities in Berlin, repelled by a Turkish Uber driver.

Another casual flipping of a philosophy book by a Western author referred to Zhuangzi as one substantial role in his book. He even quoted the famous metaphor from Zhuang Zhou as the opening of his book — which I’ll also borrow to end the opening ceremony of this notebook:

We are Zhuang Zhou, and we’re butterfly.