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Sunset

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The sunset is infinitely beautiful, yet dusk draws near. There was a time when I believed those words spoke only of loss — that beauty, by its very nature, must be brief, that everything radiant is destined to surrender itself to darkness. But the years, moving with their patient and invisible hands, have taught me otherwise. The sunset is not the defeat of daylight. It is simply another way in which light chooses to exist. I often find myself watching the evening sky, wondering why it stirs the heart so quietly. Perhaps because the sunset never announces itself. It arrives almost unnoticed, gathering the colours of an ordinary day until the whole horizon becomes a language without words. We stand before it believing we are watching the sky, when all the while it is our own lives being gently illuminated. Love has always seemed to me much the same. Not the sudden blaze that startles the heart in youth, but the slower, quieter radiance that remains after certainty has dissolved. Love, i...
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If I could /Mike Lim

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If I could      /Mike Lim If I could, I would set my longing free— a single white cloud drifting past the mountain crest, touching no leaf, stirring no silence, not even the echo of your name. The mountains do not move. Morning settles on their shoulders, layer by layer, painting the years in tender jade. The words I never spoke rest somewhere inside the mist, waiting for a wind to carry them— a whisper meant for no one, yet heard by all. My heart has always belonged to the road— gathering blossoms wherever they fall, leaving yesterday behind at every bend. Not because I have forgotten, but because I have learned that clouds are born to wander, mountains keep faith with the seasons, and every road was always meant to vanish past some farther hill. Still, I carry one small lamp that never goes out— and by its light, every farewell becomes a way of going home. So I walk on, light as a cloud, still as a mountain, carrying a lamp that has never once forgotten how to burn. ...
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Father /Mike Lim

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Your Name Is "#Father" Someone once asked："When does a guy truly become a grown man?" Perhaps it is not when he finds success, nor when applause fills the room. Perhaps it is the moment a tiny hand wraps around his finger and a small voice softly whispers, "Daddy." From that day on, he receives a new name: "Father." It is not a title of honor, but a lifelong responsibility. Not merely an identity, but a promise he carries for the rest of his life—through joy and hardship alike. Little by little, he places himself at the very end of every priority. The clothes he once longed to buy become unnecessary. The distant places he dreamed of visiting are quietly folded away with yesterday's ambitions. However weary or burdened he may be, he simply smiles and says, "I'm fine. I can handle it." As children, we believe fathers are born strong. Only later do we realize that it was never because they never grew tired—it was because they could...
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If I could

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If I Could /Mike Lim If I could, I would make my longing weightless— a single white cloud gliding beyond the mountain crest, touching no leaf, troubling no silence, not even the distant echo of your name. The mountains remain still. Morning gathers upon their shoulders, layer after quiet layer, washing the years in tender shades of jade. The words I never found linger somewhere within the mist, waiting only for the passing wind to carry them, like a whisper meant for no one, yet heard by all. My heart has always belonged to the road— gathering fallen blossoms wherever they surrendered, leaving yesterday at every bend. Not because memory has faded, but because I have learned that clouds are born to wander, mountains are faithful to the turning seasons, and every path is destined to disappear beyond another horizon. Yet still, so long as one clear sky remains within me, every farewell becomes another way home; every ridge I climb reminds me that longing is never the distance between ...
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您的名字叫父亲

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《您的名字叫父亲》 有人问，一个男人什么时候才真正长大？ 也许，不是在事业有成的时候，不是在掌声响起的时候，而是在孩子第一次握住他的手，轻轻喊出那一声——“爸爸”。 从那一天起，他有了一个新的名字，叫父亲。 这个名字，不是荣耀，而是责任；不是身份，而是一生的承担。 他渐渐把自己放在最后。 年轻时喜欢的新衣，舍不得买了；想去远方看看的梦想，慢慢收进行囊；再苦再累，也总说一句：“没事，我可以。” 孩子以为，父亲天生就坚强无比。 后来才渐渐明白，不是他不会累，而是他不能倒下；不是他没有眼泪，而是他把眼泪留给了深夜，把笑容留给了家人。 小时候，总觉得父亲的背影高大得像一座山。 走在前面，为我们挡住风雨；站在人群里，我们总能一眼找到他；放学时，远远看见那个熟悉的身影，心里便知道，回家的路到了。 等我们长大以后，才忽然发现，那座山也会疲惫。 他的脚步慢了，头发白了，背影不再挺拔，连提起一袋米，都要停下来喘一口气。 原来，岁月从来没有放过父亲。 只是这些年，他一直把衰老藏在沉默里，把辛苦写进皱纹里，把爱放进一句句平淡的话里。 他说：“孩子，路上小心。” 他说：“孩子，钱够用吗？” 他说：“孩子，不用担心我。” 他说得轻描淡写，却把一生最深的牵挂，都藏在这些再普通不过的话语里。 父亲的爱，很少惊天动地。 它更像一盏灯，不耀眼，却一直亮着；像一棵树，不言不语，却始终为家遮风挡雨；像朱自清散文《背影》里那个努力翻过月台、替孩子买橘子的身影，不说爱，却句句都是爱。 等我们终于读懂父亲的时候，往往已经走到了与他相似的年纪。 然后，我们才醒觉，原来生活并不容易；原来肩上的责任那么沉重；原来一个人可以为了家，为了爱的人，甘愿牺牲、放弃那么多。 这时候，我们终于明白： 父亲从来不是无所不能的人。 他只是因为深爱着家，所以选择了无所畏惧。 今天是父亲节。 而那个叫“父亲”的名字，写满了一个男人最深沉、最安静，也最伟大的爱。 在我的生命里，您的名字，是归途，是依靠，也是这一生，无论走多远，只要想起，就会觉得很温暖的地方。 愿天下所有父亲，岁月静好，平安健康。 ---------- 我的父亲叫林诗平，1929年生，祖籍福建永春，生命中有三个女人，2018年病逝。许多人都说我很像他，而我只想做好我自己——Mike。
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浪漫，只是懂得生活。

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观赏日出以后，约早上7.35，抵达金马仑 Boh Tea Sungai Palas茶园通关门槛，已经有两辆车（相信也是看完日出到这里）泊在门外。 山岚在雨中浮动，茶树愈发青翠。 通关执勤员告知，早上8.00游客才能驾车进去。等了一会儿，雨继续下着。抵达时，踏上木板阶梯，那座浪漫的玻璃屋正静静伫立在云雾之间。窗外是层叠起伏的茶园，窗内飘散着早餐的香气。这样的景致，让人舍不得说话，只想把时间慢慢地喝进心里。 排队点餐。选了一个靠窗位子。一份椰浆饭配仁当鸡，浓郁辛香里藏着马来西亚土地的热情；烤得微酥的咖央面包，夹着椰香与甜意；生熟蛋轻轻搅开，像生活里那些不经意的惊喜。而最后，再捧起一杯Boh金黄特级红茶，让温润茶香缓缓漫过舌尖，也漫过这个雨中的早晨。 窗外细雨依旧落着，云雾时聚时散。远山忽隐忽现，仿佛一幅尚未完成的水彩画。忽然感悟，所谓浪漫，从来不是鲜花、烛光或刻意安排的桥段。 浪漫，不过是在看完日出之后，遇见一场雨；在计划被打乱的时候，依然愿意继续前行；是在云雾缭绕的山上，好好吃一顿早餐，认真喝一杯热茶。 浪漫，只是懂得生活。
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善良的萤火虫

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《善良的萤火虫》 /Mike 暮色慢慢沉下来的时候，草地像一张被夜色覆盖的旧毯子。 白天的喧闹退去了，风也轻了，只剩下一点淡淡的青草气味，浮在空气里。 那个爱踢球的小男孩，已经抱着他心爱的球回家了。红色的、黄色的、蓝色的、白色的球，都被他一一捡进怀里，像被点名的孩子，欢欢喜喜地跟着主人回去。 只有那颗黑色的球，还安静地躺在草地中央。 它不是不重要，也不是不被喜欢。 只是因为天黑了。 黑色落进黑夜里，便像一滴墨掉进深海，再也分辨不出来。 小男孩找了很久，却始终没有看见那粒黑色的球。最后，家里的灯光亮了，母亲的呼唤从远处传来，小男孩只能一步三回头地离开。 于是，那粒黑色的球，第一次知道了什么叫孤独。 孤独并不是身边没有人，而是明明也曾被珍惜，却在某一个瞬间，被世界的黑暗轻轻遗漏了。 夜越来越深。 草叶上的露水慢慢凝结，冰凉地贴在它身上。它静静躺着，不哭，也不喊，因为它知道，再大的声音，黑夜也未必听得见。 可就在这时，一点微弱的光，忽然从远处飘来。 是一只萤火虫。 它小得像夜里的一个标点，却固执地亮着。它飞过草地，飞过风声，最后轻轻停在黑色的球上。那一点温柔的萤光，像有人在无边黑暗里，替它点燃了一颗小小的心。 接着，又有第二只、第三只萤火虫飞来了。 黑色的球，终于不再与黑夜混为一体。它被照见了。 远处的小男孩推开门，忽然惊喜地喊：“啊！原来你在这里！” 他奔跑着回来，把那颗沾着露水的黑色球紧紧抱进怀里。 而那一晚，草地上的风很轻，萤火虫的光也很轻。 轻得像这个世界在悄悄告诉每一个孤独的人： 你不是被遗忘了。 只是还没等到，那一点愿意为你而来的光。 教师节快乐！🥰 备注：灵感源自于台湾作家张曼娟老师宣传张曼娟小学堂的视频  https://www.facebook.com/share/v/1E6TPHHdkP/
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