Between heaven and hell, there is this thing called earth.  This is where I stand. 

Between earth and sky, there is this thing called life.  This is where I breathe. 

Between life and death there is this thing called choice.  This is what I have. 

And with choice comes the consequences of desire, forgiveness, hate…and love.  And this is what I’ve been through.

All humans are born with desire.  All humans are taught to forgive.  All humans are shaped by hatred.  But very few know how to love. 

I am one of them.

The air around me is humid, yet not suffocating.  I fling my tight form skillfully through the air, landing in the beam of sunlight shining on the hardwood floor.  One, two, three.  The wind floats slowly through the open window, fanning me with the breeze of an approaching summer.

My right hand grips the long staff, its smooth wood molding comfortably inside my palm.  Despite the draft, perspiration rests stubbornly on my temple and my limbs are burning wearily. 

But I’m shaking with satisfaction.  It’s been over two months since I’ve accomplished such a gratifying practice session.  Three hours, but a wonderfully exhausting three hours.

A few months’ time doesn’t seem like enough, but I’m learning and adapting slowly.  From a life without memories, to a life without love; now I don’t find either of those discouraging.  I dream about dipping my fingers into an oasis, and drawing back when I find the water much too cold.  I’ve swam far enough and retreated to shore before I got too deep.  It doesn’t mean it was a horrible thing to nearly drown in the process. 

But now I’m back.  New, refreshed, and still thinking everyday about that someone who bothered me with musical terms every chance she had.  That someone I said I loved and meant it. 

It’s not easy for Huang Zitao to remain as Huang Zitao, but I’m still trying.

Apart from that, life is…magnificent.  I’ve healed quite a bit since I left the academy, mentally, physically.  I’m well enough to come to practice three times a week without the dread of coming home to a dreary apartment.  I manage to fall asleep every night, though it’s difficult to stay asleep.  I turn on the lights when it’s dark and open the curtains when it’s bright. 

I’ve kept the music book, the letter, and the picture, tucked away safely in the top drawer of the nightstand.  Even though it hurts to see it every once in a while, I don’t mind.

Because of what she’s said before—nothing will last forever, so neither will separation.  I’ve kept these artifacts only to warn myself of what I would be if I wanted to turn around again.  And sometimes, when I open the music book, I can hear her soft voice if I listen carefully.  When I’m lying in bed alone, I can imagine the fragrance of her lips beside me. 

Before we met, I held my breath before I could breathe and closed my eyes before I could see.  She taught me to try things I don’t wish to try, and to reach farther than I could stretch.

But I’m not greedy enough to wish for all of that to come back.   I’m not in pain when I think about never seeing her again.  I’m not desperate enough to worry about every second that passes and how short life really is. 

If I had the chance to live the past again, I wouldn’t.

Because, being love with her, even if it was just once…is all I’ll ever need.