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.
Deeper.
Tougher.
Incomparable.
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