Moon River

drifting through thoughts, one story at a time

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Mostly lost, occasionally found. Writing about the in-between
  • Seasons

    Seasons

    Some songs don’t just play in the background.

    They hold you.

    Like a friend who doesn’t ask questions, just sits beside you in silence, knowing that’s enough.

    That’s what “Seasons” by Wave to Earth did to me.

    It didn’t come crashing in with declarations. It didn’t try to fix anything. It just poured itself out like sunlight through a grey window; quiet, slow, and aching in the most delicate way.

    From the first note, I felt like I was walking through myself.

    The lyrics don’t explain everything, and that’s the beauty of it. It’s not trying to give you answers. It’s simply telling you, “Yes. I’ve been there too.”

    To that moment when love lingers but doesn’t stay.

    When the warmth you once held in your hands starts slipping through your fingers; softly, and then all at once.

    When the days change, and you change with them, whether you wanted to or not.

    “Seasons” is about that quiet in-between.

    The space where love used to live.

    Where memories become foggy at the edges, and names still live in your chest even though your lips don’t say them anymore.

    It reminded me of a version of myself I no longer am.

    Of people who felt like spring but left in winter.

    Of how time moves forward, even when your heart doesn’t.

    But Wave to Earth doesn’t write from bitterness. That’s what makes the song so hauntingly beautiful.

    There’s no anger. No resistance. Just acceptance.

    A gentle exhale: “This, too, was love. This, too, had its season.”

    And maybe that’s the lesson I needed.

    Not all endings have to be loud.

    Some just fade like early morning light.

    Some people aren’t meant to stay, not because they didn’t matter, but because the season changed, and so did we.

    So I’ll carry this song with me, on slow walks, on rainy evenings, in quiet airports.

    As a reminder that letting go doesn’t mean forgetting.

    And endings don’t mean it wasn’t real.

    It was, Real!

    And like all seasons,

    it passed.

  • Book Review: The Alchemist

    Sometimes a book doesn’t change your life.

    It simply reminds you of the life you were always meant to live.

    When I picked up The Alchemist, I wasn’t really expecting anything. It was a quiet evening, the kind where the world feels like it’s holding its breath. I read the first few pages, and something in me slowed down. There’s a calm in Coelho’s writing, a clarity. As if every sentence knows where it’s going, even if you don’t. And maybe that’s what struck me the most: the comfort of being lost, yet still trusting the path.

    Santiago, the shepherd boy, sets out in search of treasure. But of course, it’s never just about treasure. It’s about leaving behind what’s familiar. It’s about learning to listen; to the wind, the desert, the soul. To silence. And that’s what resonated with me most.

    My own journey has been filled with maps that don’t match the terrain. Plans that made sense in theory but unraveled the moment I stepped into the unknown. I’ve changed countries, changed paths, changed versions of myself more times than I can count. And yet, for all the uncertainty, there’s been a strange kind of guidance underneath it all. Like Santiago, I’ve come to believe that the universe really does whisper; softly, subtly, and only when you’re ready to listen.

    One of the lines that stayed with me was this: “You will never be able to escape from your heart. So it’s better to listen to what it has to say.” That line lingered. Because there have been seasons where I tried to quiet my instincts, to play it safe, to stay in one place, to follow paths already carved by others. But the heart is persistent. It keeps nudging. It knows what it wants long before the mind is willing to catch up. So, whatever it is, trust your heart!

    I’ve always been drawn to signs. To moments that feel too aligned to be coincidence. Coelho calls these “omens,” and I love that word. It feels ancient. Sacred. And in a way, reading The Alchemist reminded me of how I’ve always tried to make sense of my life through patterns, meaning, and wonder. Not everything has to be logical. Sometimes, a dream is enough.

    There’s also this quiet encouragement throughout the book to keep going, even when nothing makes sense. Even when the desert feels endless and everything inside you wants to turn back. And honestly, that’s where I am now. Not at the beginning, but not yet at the treasure. Somewhere in the middle. Somewhere in the stillness between departure and arrival.

    And it’s okay.

    This book didn’t give me answers. But it gave me language for the questions I’ve been carrying:

    What does it mean to live fully?

    To trust without proof?

    To risk being misunderstood in order to be real?

    I still don’t know.

    But I think I’m closer than I was before.

    Santiago’s story reminded me that the journey is the treasure. That who we become along the way is more valuable than anything we might find at the end. That paying attention to our dreams, to our restlessness, to the rhythm of the world is the bravest thing we can do.

    So I’ll keep walking.

    I’ll keep listening.

    And I’ll keep trusting that the path, however winding, it’s still mine.

  • The Things That Remain: The Ruins of Saint Paul’s

    The Things That Remain: The Ruins of Saint Paul’s

    A few weeks ago, I was in Macau.

    It was one of those spontaneous, no-expectation kind of trips where you show up with a camera, a bit of curiosity, and a heart still trying to make peace with everything it’s been through.

    I didn’t think much when I first put The Ruins of St. Paul on my list. I thought it’d be just another tourist spot to cross off. Another place to take a photo, post, move on. But I was wrong. It stayed with me, quietly, deeply.

    The moment I stood before it, something stirred. This wasn’t just architecture. This was a story. Wounded, weathered, and still here.

    It was once a church. Grand, sacred, full of meaning. But after a fire in the 1800s, only the façade remained. Just one wall. The rest was gone. And yet, somehow, that lone wall… stood tall. Defiant. Beautiful. A silhouette of something that once was whole.

    I stood there longer than I thought I would.

    Looking at the carvings, the details, the way East and West were woven into every piece of stone. It felt strangely familiar. Like looking at a part of myself.

    Because in many ways, I think I’ve felt like that too.

    Once whole, now… not quite.

    Once loved, now left behind.

    But still standing.

    Still here.

    There’s something hauntingly beautiful about ruins. They don’t pretend. They don’t try to hide the fact that something burned down. They carry the memory openly. And yet people still come. They come not despite the brokenness, but because of it.

    Because there’s still something worth seeing. Worth feeling.

    And maybe that’s the lesson I needed without realizing it.

    There was a love in my life that I gave everything to. A brief yet very meaningful encounter.

    The kind of love that shakes you to your core and asks for all your softness.

    It didn’t last.

    But even after the fire, after the silence, the heartbreak, some part of that love still remains in me.

    Not in the way I hoped. Not with us hand in hand. But in the way it shaped me, stretched me, taught me how deep I could feel.

    The truth is, I don’t want to erase it. I don’t want to forget.

    I want to carry it like the Ruins of St. Paul carries its history, not desperately, not bitterly, but quietly. As proof that I lived through it. That I was brave enough to love like that, once.

    I may not be the same girl I was before the fall, but I’m still me.

    Still soft.

    Still hopeful.

    Still standing.

    And maybe that’s enough.

  • It’s Already Tomorrow in Hong Kong

    When I first landed in Hong Kong, the city didn’t welcome me, it swallowed me whole. The neon lights blinked like they had a secret to tell, and the air was thick with humidity and possibilities. I had barely unpacked when I realized I wasn’t just adjusting to a new city. I was stepping into a new version of myself.

    Back in Sweden, life had a rhythm, a cool, effortless, almost cinematic flow. Here, the pace was frantic, a never-ending rush of clattering trams, hurried footsteps, and the occasional profanity shouted in Cantonese (a language I had yet to master, but I could already sense when I was being cursed at).

    Every morning, I woke up to the city’s chaos, the hum of life outside my apartment window, the distant wail of a ferry horn, the scent of fresh dim sum wafting from the cha chaan teng downstairs. I traded my slow Scandinavian mornings for quick sips of milk tea on my way to work, dodging umbrella-wielding aunties like it was an Olympic sport.

    Hong Kong didn’t hold my hand; it pushed me into the deep end. I got lost in Central Station more times than I care to admit, learned the hard way that you never, ever stand on the left side of an escalator, and discovered that nothing in this city waits for you, not even the tram.

    But then, something shifted.

    One evening, I found myself walking along the Victoria Harbour promenade. The skyline shimmered in front of me, a dizzying display of steel and ambition. I was alone, yet I wasn’t lonely. It hit me then, this city doesn’t wait because it isn’t waiting. It’s already tomorrow. And if I wanted to keep up, I had to stop hesitating and start moving.

    So, I did.

    I started filling my nights with rooftop drinks and conversations in a mix of English, Cantonese, and the universal language of expats trying to make a home out of a place they barely understand. I let the city surprise me, an impromptu hike up Dragon’s Back, a hidden speakeasy behind a noodle shop, a stranger who became a friend over a shared plate of roast goose.

    And maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t swallowed whole after all. Maybe I was becoming a part of it.

    Because if there’s one thing Hong Kong teaches me, it’s this: you don’t wait for life to happen. You run with it.

  • Note to Self: A Letter from Benjamin Button

    Note to Self: A Letter from Benjamin Button

    For what it’s worth it’s never too late

    To be whoever you want to be

    There’s no time limit

    Start whenever you want

    You can change or stay the same

    There are no rules to this thing

    We can make the best or the worst of it

    I hope you make the best of it

    I hope you see things that startle you

    I hope you feel things you never felt before

    I hope you meet people with a different point of view

    I hope you live a life you’re proud of

    And if you find that you’re not

    I hope you have the strength

    To start all over again

  • Quantum Entanglement

    Quantum Entanglement

    They say that when two particles are entangled, no matter how far apart they drift, across galaxies, through time itself, their connection remains. One moves, the other responds. Instant. Invisible. Unbreakable.

    That’s how I think of us.

    There was something cosmic about the way we collided. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t even planned. It was like something deep within me recognized you, like my atoms had known yours long before we ever met.

    You didn’t just enter my life, you bent the laws of who I thought I was. You made me question my own rhythm, my direction, my freedom. And yet, I let you. Gladly.

    Because love, when it’s real, isn’t tidy. It doesn’t follow rules or timelines. It’s messy and magnetic and maddening. And with you, I felt like I was orbiting something too big to name, too rare to replicate.

    But maybe… even quantum entanglement doesn’t mean you’ll stay close forever. Sometimes, one particle has to move forward. Even if the other one can still feel the pull.

    I’m still feeling it.

    Maybe you are too.

    But whether we drift apart or realign again someday, I’ll never doubt that what we had was extraordinary. Something not everyone gets to feel. Something written in the very fabric of the universe.

    And that… that will always be enough to keep you with me.

  • Life Should Be Celebrated!

    Life Should Be Celebrated!

    Growing up, my father always had a way of making even the smallest moments feel like victories. He wasn’t the kind of man who waited for grand achievements to celebrate, he believed that every step forward, no matter how small, was worthy of recognition.

    I remember being a child, sitting at our dining table, feeling defeated over something as trivial as a school project. I didn’t win, didn’t even place, and yet there he was, beaming as if I had just conquered the world. “You worked hard, didn’t you?” he asked. “Then that’s already a reason to celebrate.”

    And so, we did. Not with extravagant gestures, but with little things, a scoop of ice cream, a drive around the city, a quiet moment of acknowledgment. “You don’t wait until you’ve climbed the whole mountain to be proud,” he’d say. “You celebrate every step, or you’ll never know how far you’ve come.”

    That lesson followed me through life. Through every transition, every heartbreak, every uncertainty. When I moved away, when I faced rejection, when I felt lost, his voice echoed in my mind, reminding me that even survival is an achievement.

    So, I learned to celebrate. Not just the obvious wins, but the invisible ones too. The mornings I got out of bed when it felt impossible. The times I chose to walk away from things that no longer served me. The moments I stood up for myself, even if my voice shook.

    Now, as I sit here, reflecting on another month gone by, I think about all the milestones I almost overlooked, the quiet victories, the battles no one saw, the moments of growth that didn’t come with applause. And I realize, this is what life is about.

    Because if there’s one thing my father taught me, it’s this: Life isn’t just about chasing the big moments. It’s about finding joy in the small ones, too. And that’s exactly what I intend to do.

  • Captivated by The Light

    Captivated by The Light

    I’ve always believed that sunlight gives a place its soul. It’s not just about brightness, it’s about how it touches a city, how it moves through its streets, and how it makes you feel.

    The sunlight in Tokyo for example is crisp and direct, cutting through the skyline in sharp angles. In the morning, it filters through high-rise buildings, casting long, geometric shadows onto the streets. By midday, it’s bright and relentless, bouncing off glass towers and turning the city into a maze of reflections. But as the day ends, the sun softens, slipping behind the skyline, leaving the city bathed in a hazy glow that fades almost too quickly. Here, sunlight feels efficient, fleeting, and always in motion, much like the city itself.

    I was in Lisbon during summer last year, the sun is golden, as if it carries the warmth of centuries past. It pours over the city’s pastel-colored buildings, reflects off the Tagus River like liquid gold, and makes even the narrowest alleyways feel alive. The sun here isn’t harsh, it’s warm, familiar, slow-moving. Even in the late afternoon, when it stretches long shadows across the cobblestone streets, it feels like it’s in no hurry to disappear. Lisbon’s sunlight feels timeless, wrapping everything in a soft, nostalgic glow.

    Stockholm’s sunlight is a lesson in patience. In summer, it stretches endlessly, painting the sky in soft hues of pink and lavender, casting a delicate glow that lasts until midnight. It’s the kind of light that never rushes, that makes you want to sit by the water and watch the way it dances on the surface. But in winter, sunlight becomes rare, a treasure that arrives late and leaves early, barely skimming the tops of buildings before slipping away. Here, the sun teaches you that light is something to be cherished, because its absence makes you appreciate it even more.

    In Bali, sunlight doesn’t just illuminate, it wraps around you. It’s thick, golden, and almost tangible, pressing against your skin in a way that feels both comforting and overwhelming. In the early morning, it’s soft and diffused, glowing through temple mist. By midday, it’s intense, drenching the landscape in heat, turning rice fields into shimmering expanses of green. And at sunset, the sky melts into deep oranges and purples, the sun sinking slowly into the ocean like a final exhale. Here, sunlight feels sacred, immersive, and deeply alive.

    Each city has its own sun, its own rhythm of light. And maybe that’s why no two places ever feel the same, the sun isn’t just something above us, it’s something within a place, shaping the way we experience it.

    Light doesn’t just illuminate, it shapes how we experience a place. Maybe that’s why we change when we travel, not because we become different people, but because the light around us does.

  • Whisper Thinking

    Whisper Thinking

    I wanted to chase the light as it slipped beyond the horizon, to watch the sky melt into hues of fire and dusk, to stand in the quiet hush of twilight and feel the weight of the world soften. I wanted to witness the first light of dawn spilling over mountaintops, turning the earth gold, and to see the night bloom with a thousand scattered stars in places where the city’s glow couldn’t reach.

    I wanted to know the way the wind carried whispers across the open plains, to hear the distant hum of waves folding into the shore, to feel the rhythm of the earth beneath my feet as I wandered through forests thick with the scent of rain and pine. I longed to walk roads that stretched into the unknown, paths carved by time and stories, places where silence spoke louder than words.

    I wanted to have landscapes to lose myself in, endless deserts where the sand shifted like liquid gold, cliffs where the sea crashed wild and untamed, fields of flowers swaying under skies that stretched forever. I wanted cities to disappear into, where the streets pulsed with life and every corner held a secret waiting to be found, where I could be anyone or no one at all. I wanted to stand in the middle of a bustling market, surrounded by voices in languages I didn’t yet understand, or sit in the quiet of an old bookstore, tracing the faded ink of stories written long before me.

    I wanted to wake up somewhere unfamiliar, where the air tasted different and the mornings carried the scent of unknown spices, where I could step out into streets that were still foreign to me and feel the quiet thrill of discovering something new. I wanted to sip coffee in a tucked-away café, watching life unfold in a city that didn’t know my name.

    I wanted to dive into oceans so clear they blurred the line between sky and water, to swim beneath waterfalls hidden deep in the heart of the world, to feel the sun on my skin in places where winter never came. I wanted to climb mountains just to stand at the top and breathe air that felt untouched, to cross bridges that connected lands and lives, to sit by train windows and watch the world pass by in a blur of color and motion.

    I wanted to learn the art of being still, of listening, of letting the world move around me without feeling the need to chase it. I wanted to feel music in my bones, to dance without restraint in streets where no one knew me, to watch fireworks light up foreign skies and let their echoes remind me that life was meant to be celebrated.

    I wanted love that felt like freedom, friendships that spanned oceans, and stories that would outlive me. I wanted to collect moments like treasures, fragments of laughter, the hush of a city before dawn, the way a stranger’s kindness could make a place feel like home.

    Most of all, I wanted to live unbound, to follow what called to me, to move without apology, to carve a life that was entirely my own. And somehow, despite the doubts, despite the voices that told me otherwise, I did.

  • The Quarter-Life Odyssey

    The Quarter-Life Odyssey

    I sat by my apartment window, watching the city pulse with life. Neon lights flickered, traffic hummed below, and yet, despite the movement all around me, I felt like I was standing still. For years, I had been chasing something—freedom, adventure, meaning—but now, for the first time, I wasn’t sure what I was running toward.

    The quarter-life crisis had arrived, uninvited but inevitable. I had built a life that looked exactly how I wanted it to: independent, untethered, full of possibilities. But now that I had it, a quiet, unsettling thought crept in, was this really it? Was I happy, or just busy?

    And then, there was the heartbreak. Not the dramatic kind, not the kind that leaves you shattered in an instant, but the slow, aching realization that some things aren’t meant to last. That sometimes, no matter how much you wish otherwise, connections fade, and people become memories. I had been here before, convincing myself I was fine, burying myself in new cities, new experiences, new distractions. But this time, there was nowhere to run.

    I had to sit with it.

    The hardest part wasn’t moving on, it was figuring out who I was without the distractions, without the constant motion. I had always defined myself by what I did, where I went, what I pursued next. But when the excitement dulled, when the noise faded, who was I?

    So I searched.

    I picked up my camera, not just to document the world, but to see it differently, to find beauty in stillness. I started writing again, not just about places, but about myself, about the things I had been too afraid to say out loud. I let myself be alone, really alone, and learned that solitude wasn’t emptiness. It was space.

    And somewhere in that space, I began to thrive.

    The answers didn’t come all at once. Some days, they didn’t come at all. But slowly, I realized I wasn’t lost. I was just in between. And for the first time, I wasn’t afraid of that.