When the border moves in our hearts, the distance grows between us.

​Sometimes, late at night, I dream of durian orchards. The ground is soft but strewn with thorns—step carefully, or you’ll feel it. There’s a sweetness hidden somewhere, but always you risk the bitterness. Lately, as headlines flicker across my screen—war at the border, temples shrouded in smoke—the orchard seems less distant, and the thorns are real.

Thailand vs. Cambodia. I never thought I’d care so much about a line I can’t see on the ground, a line someone else drew a century ago. But here I am, reading about artillery fire and old maps. I wonder if anyone who made those treaties ever stepped barefoot on the soil they claimed or just drew lines from behind wide desks, their fingertips dusted with powdered sugar or chalk.

The stories say it’s about temples. Ancient stones, Prasat Ta Muen Thom. Preah Vihear. Names heavy with old prayers. In 1962, the court said “this one’s Cambodia’s”—but not the ground beneath it, not the road in. It never ends there.

It’s not just about lost stones. It’s about lost stories, and who gets to tell them. It’s about the feeling, standing on land your grandparents called theirs, but being told the map says otherwise. It’s about men in shirtsleeves on TV, waving documents, stirring up ghosts they’ve never met.

I’m haunted by images of evacuation camps—families clutching plastic bags, children squinting at noon sun. They aren’t fighting over temples. They want to go home.

I think about a line from a Thai film I saw (it stays with me, stubborn as a thorn): “In our struggle to claim what we believe we deserve, we may lose sight of what truly matters.” In “The Paradise of Thorns,” love was the orchard, but loss was the fruit. Here, too, I see leaders shouting about pride and ancient glory, and wonder if they remember how easily these orchards can burn.

When I hear talk of solutions—demilitarized zones, shared heritage, ASEAN mediation—I want to believe it’s possible. I want to believe in people wise enough to stop the shouting, to walk the orchard together and say: let’s make this fruit sweeter, for all of us. But history clings. Nationalism grows wild. And somewhere, some child is waking up from a dream of gunfire.

Maps don’t bleed, but people do. The border remains, drawn in dust and old ambition. Each side convinced they’re right. I wish, sometimes, someone would wake up from this dream—the one where history repeats itself—and look around with new eyes. Maybe then the fruit wouldn’t taste so bitter, even if we had to share it.

So tonight, as the news scrolls by and the orchard fades, I remind myself: these conflicts don’t belong to one side. They belong to all of us who inherit thorns and sweetness both, and must decide—each morning—what we’ll do with them.

“Humility is found in the quietest acts, echoed in every note.”

This morning I watched a video that I keep replaying in my mind.

It didn’t come from a glossy platform or a film festival. No. It was of a Grab delivery rider, helmet on, fingers gliding over the keys of a battered public piano in the chilly open space of Tanjong Pagar MRT.

He sat in his green shirt, the very uniform some glance past, or worse, judge. Maybe he played for himself. Maybe for the small crowd who gathered. Or maybe for no one at all. I couldn’t tell. He played with that mix of confidence and uncertainty that makes people both ordinary and remarkable.

The music—a K-Drama melody, soft and sad—floated above the platform. For two and a half minutes, time itself seemed to pause. His food delivery bags waited at his side, quietly. I wonder what stories were packed inside those containers.
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When he finished, the crowd clapped. He didn’t bow or pose. He waved only a little, picked up his delivery, and vanished. Like a subway dream that slips away before you can catch it.

I watched again. And again. Why did it move me? Maybe it was the reminder that greatness doesn’t always wear a suit or carry a title. Sometimes it wears gloves and delivers noodles. Sometimes it risks everything just to play a song before rushing through the city for the sake of a little income.

We spend so much of our lives measuring people by their uniforms, their jobs, their places in line. We label. We assume. “Delivery driver” gets filed away as someone to ignore, unless you’re hungry. It’s easy. Too easy.

But music, like kindness, can come from where we least expect.

Once, I would’ve thought these performances belonged to professionals, to the highly trained. But I’m learning—slowly—to shed those expectations. This rider, anonymous in a crowd, reminded me to see with new eyes. Everyone is carrying something. A skill, a sorrow, a hope. Most of us walk right past.

I wonder about the talents hidden in plain sight. The poetry, the art, the hands that fix, that heal, that feed. The piano man reminded me: A person deserves respect, before you know their story. Maybe, especially when you don’t.

He’s probably on the road now, weaving through traffic, music left behind in a train station. But I think people will remember the sound, the hands, the humility.
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So will I.

In the simple act of sitting and washing, I rediscover a gentle pause in a world that rarely stops.

The other morning, before the hurry and the noise, I pulled a foldable stool into my shower. The thing felt out of place under the cold glare of the light—plastic, plain—but as I sat down, kneecaps damp and skin prickling in the fog, a memory eased up beside me. Japan. Four, maybe five years in, and mornings smelling forever of soap and wet tile.

Back at my old university, everybody knew about the ofuro—shared bath, communal heat, everybody naked and not caring. Mornings, evenings, all the boys lined up on low stools, soaping skin that was still shaking off the day. There was a ritual to it. First, you sit. You clean yourself, every inch. Only once the work is done—when you’re rinsed and new—do you lower yourself into the steaming bath with the rest. It wasn’t just about hygiene, though we joked that it was, laughed as we scrubbed toes and earlobes. It was slowing down on purpose. It was the act of choosing each movement, wiping away more than just dirt.

I think there’s something honest about sitting while you clean yourself. You miss patches standing up, rushing through. Try balancing on one foot to wash the other—awkward. Sitting, you’re forced to pay attention. Soap, rinse, repeat. Listen to the water strike your shoulders. Feel the brush against your heel.

These days, there’s no hot bath waiting for me after. But I keep the ritual—sitting, washing, doing nothing else. Maybe it’s silly, but the repetition pulls me out of myself. Lowers the volume on the usual anxious chatter. There’s comfort in the routine, a little sanctuary carved out from rushing. I even clean the glass when I’m done, chasing each water droplet with a squiggy. It feels like finishing an old story, the quiet kind with no sharp endings.

If you ever feel like things are spinning too quickly—try this. Sit down to shower. Let water and soap become the only things that matter, just for a few minutes. Take care in the small things and see what opens up inside.
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Sometimes it’s the smallest rituals that remind you your skin is your own. Sometimes, sitting quietly, you remember how to be gentle with the world and with yourself.

Among the leaves and the quiet battles, I learn the work of holding on.

There’s a frangipani just outside my bedroom balcony. When I moved it there, I worried it wouldn’t pull through the change—the shock of new dirt, new shade, unfamiliar skies. For a while it looked brittle, all slack green and drooping stems. I’d check it every morning, half-expecting something worse, but eventually it decided to stay. Sprouted new leaves. Dug in.
Then the mealybugs came. At first, I didn’t pay attention. Cottony bits on the stalk, soft and almost invisible, like leftover dust. But they spread. I ran a finger along a branch and it came back sticky. So I did what everybody does now: searched the internet for solutions, read more than I ever thought I would about pest infestations.
Neem oil, the sites said. Mix it with detergent and water. Spray often, stay watchful, and don’t assume you’ve won just because you can’t see them for a day or two. I ordered a kit, bent over the leaves in the evenings, made a ritual of dousing every likely hiding place. Still the bugs return, stubborn and quiet. Keeping the plant clean takes discipline, a patience that’s sometimes hard to muster after a long day.
There’s something almost predictable about it—the way anything good, anything living or loved, ends up threatened by slow decay. House, body, relationships. The frangipani won’t thrive without care. Neither do we. Even when things seem fine for a little while, there’s still work to be done: small chores, repeated gestures, a willingness to look close enough to spot the trouble before it spreads.
I used to think the goal was to win—to get rid of the bugs, solve the problem, and move on. Now I’m beginning to think it’s about attention. It’s about returning, again and again, giving the things you care about the time they need, even when it’s a hassle or the results aren’t guaranteed. Maybe most things in life ask for this—not a one-time fix, but a kind of gentle vigilance. And in that watching, that tending, there’s something you get back. Not certainty. But something like peace.

Overflowing: Letting Go to Become Full

I heard the song a year ago. Fujii Kaze’s voice, gentle and unhurried, drifted into my apartment one afternoon, the kind of afternoon that feels like it might last forever but never does. I didn’t understand the words then, not really. But the melody stuck with me. It lingered, like the aftertaste of coffee or the way sunlight clings to the wall after you’ve drawn the curtains.
A year passed. I found myself listening again, this time with the lyrics in front of me, trying to decipher what the song wanted to say.

“走り出した午後も 重ね合う日々も 避けがたく全て終わりが来る.”
“The afternoon that started running, the piling up days, inevitably everything comes to an end.” (English translation)

The line hit me in the chest, soft but sure, the way truth sometimes does.

I thought about afternoons that slipped away, about people I loved and the way they left or changed or simply became different shapes in the landscape of my life. Even the beautiful things, the ones you want to hold onto, pass. Maybe especially those.

The song isn’t sad, though. Not really. It’s more like the hush that comes after a storm, or the feeling you get watching cherry blossoms fall—something beautiful, but fleeting, and that’s the whole point. The lyrics keep coming back to this idea:

“変わりゆくものは仕方がないねと 手を放す 軽くなる 満ちてゆく.”
“Things that change are unavoidable, so let go of your hand, become lighter, become full. Overflow.” (English translation)

It’s funny how letting go can make you feel fuller. You’d think it would be the opposite. But the song is right. When you stop clinging—whether it’s to memories, expectations, or the idea that things should last—you become lighter. You make space for something else. Maybe it’s peace, maybe it’s love, maybe it’s just the quiet acceptance that this, too, is enough.

I think about Marie Kondo sometimes, how she tells you to thank your old T-shirt or mug before letting it go. There’s something to that. Not just with things, but with people, with moments, with the parts of yourself you’ve outgrown. You let go, you become lighter, and somehow you overflow. Not with noise or clutter, but with something deeper. Maybe it’s joy. Maybe it’s just the sense that you’re finally enough, just as you are.

The seasons turn. The sakura blooms, then falls. Autumn comes and the leaves turn red, then brown, then gone. It’s all beautiful, all temporary. The song reminds me to make peace with that. To let go, and in doing so, to become full.

Beautiful song. I hope you like it too.

Caps and Head Shape

I have an issue with wearing caps. For some reason, my head shape allows me to carry off wearing sunglasses, glasses, or hats. However, when I wear caps, it just makes me look funny. I do like wearing hats, especially those that don't mess up my hairstyle. Over the past few years, I've been wearing hats now and then.

A New Find in Nagoya

During this trip to Nagoya, I happened to find a nice shop that sells a cap I really like. The strange thing is that there's actually some kind of velcro within the head itself that allows me to adjust the size to fit my head shape. I didn't need to use it, but it was nice to know that there was something like this. I like the fact that there's enough room for my hair to not be affected by the cap. This way, if I remove it indoors, it doesn't change my hairstyle.

Key Insight

I guess that's something I will be using for my trips from now on, here and there.

Nagoya, Japan Trip

I think that my Nagoya, Japan trip was a good trip. More so because I didn't have to rush all over the place and could take time to really wander around the different districts of Nagoya. It was great that I made a trip to Ise Jingu, which is actually not in Nagoya itself, but further south. Ise Jingu, being the most holy shrine in Japan, was actually an eye-opener. It was less touristy and really for those devoted Japanese who are there to make an offering.

Culinary Delights

This trip also allowed me to eat quite a lot of interesting Nagoya local food. I tried Masazaka beef as well as a local sandwich called Okura sandwich. It is a toast with margarine, whipped cream, and their local red bean, which was really nice. Another thing I remember enjoying was the steamed eel rice, which was great as well. I managed to try almost all kinds of delicacies in Nagoya. Of course, this is going to make me gain some weight, which I will have to lose when I'm back to my exercise routine.

Nagoya's Underrated Charm

All in all, I think it's nice to visit Nagoya. I always feel that Nagoya is one of those neglected cities, with Kyoto, Osaka, and Tokyo stealing the limelight. Because of that, it is not as popular with tourists. But the reality is that it's actually the fourth most populous city around. If you look at the history of Japan, the whole shogunate actually started off from Nagoya. It has a very rich history, especially during the warring states period in Nagoya when all the shoguns and samurais were out and about.

Exploring Sampakoi

It was just a Sunday where we decided to try somewhere new. We discovered a small Sunday street food area or market in the Sampakoi area. Concerned about congestion, I chose to take my motorcycle to get there.

The Atmosphere

The area was a bit small, but there were still people out and about. We saw both locals and tourists exploring, trying some of the local food, and hanging around. However, there wasn't enough seating, so many people had to buy food to take home or take away. There were just one or two cafes along the main road.

Overall Impression

Overall, I think it's worth a one-time visit. It's slightly small, so some might find it a bit too cozy, as you can cover it within a short period of time.

​In the lush embrace of a remote durian orchard, "The Paradise of Thorns" unfolds like a bittersweet fruit, its story as complex and layered as the Thai landscape it inhabits. This poignant Thai film weaves a tapestry of love, loss, and legal strife, centering on Thongkam and Sek, a gay couple whose shared life is abruptly severed by tragedy.

As the fragrant durian blossoms wither, so too does Thongkam's world when Sek passes away. The orchard, once a sanctuary of their love, becomes a battleground of grief and ownership. Thongkam must navigate the thorny path of reclaiming what he believes is rightfully his, while the absence of legal recognition for their union casts a long shadow over his fight.

The film's brilliance lies in its nuanced portrayal of five key characters, each a prism refracting different hues of love and loss:
Thongkam, portrayed with raw emotion by Jeff Satur, stands as the heart of the story. His endurance in the face of hardship is as steadfast as the durian trees he tends, his love for Sek rooted deeply in the soil of their shared dreams.

Mo, brought to life by Engfa Waraha, initially appears as thorny as the durian's husk. Yet, as the layers peel away, we see a woman equally scarred by love's cruel hand, her devotion to Saeng a testament to love's many forms.

Sek, played with complexity by Toey Pongsakorn Mettarikanon, embodies the conflict between desire and duty. Like a durian split open, his character reveals the sweet and the bitter - a man torn between his true self and societal expectations.

Saeng, masterfully portrayed by Seeda Puapimon, is like the roots of the durian trees - hidden yet vital. Her journey from seeming selfishness to revealed vulnerability mirrors the ripening of the fruit itself, her love emerging too late, but no less potent.
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Jingna, brought to life by Keng Harit Buayoi, serves as the film's conscience. Like a bird's-eye view of the orchard, he sees all, his perspective offering a bittersweet wisdom on the cost of blind pursuit.

"Paradise of Thorns" transcends its initial premise of LGBTQ rights, blossoming into a universal meditation on love's many facets. It reminds us that in our struggle to claim what we believe we deserve, we may lose sight of what truly matters.

Set against the rustic beauty of Mae Hong Son, the film whispers that these tales of love and loss are as universal as the seasons. From Bangkok's bustling streets to the quiet durian groves of the north, human hearts beat to the same rhythm of joy and sorrow.
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In the end, "Paradise of Thorns" leaves us with a profound truth: sometimes, in life's orchard, we open what we believe to be the sweetest fruit, only to find bitterness within. Yet it's in accepting this duality that we truly taste the richness of the human experience.