I was 12 when I experienced my first long-haul-flight to Australia. It was my first time realizing that the earth is so tiny up above. The houses got smaller, smaller, and vanished as scattered dots as my plane went higher. The green landscapes appeared in blocks, the rivers went in line, and seeing it from sky made me held by breath for a while. What a lovely miniature I’ve been living in.
Then it happened. The tsunami. I was at a hotel in Sydney when the local television broadcasted how the giant waves swiped up the west side of my country. It was a heartbreaking scene—seeing the spectacular miniature that I just saw on the plane swiped up just like a paper town.
The impact was huge. The lost stayed for a long time. The ache seemed could last forever.
And it struck me; we may live in a paper house, work in a plastic building, breath in a vulnerable earth. But still, the feelings we have, the love we share, the bond we make, they are all bigger than the world we live in. Stronger than the miniature we see everyday.