Thought It Was Only Me…
I thought it was only me who felt attached to that place—the place where whispers and laughter filled the night, waiting for dawn wrapped in mist, only to fade under the weary midday sun, then linger sparsely as evening fell. If not for that one day…
He convinced me. He returned home for a charity trip, the night wind howling against the car window. The phone kept ringing along the way, pulling him back to work. Always busy.
The whole way back, I listened to him talk. Interwoven with his words were incoming calls—one, two, three—the phone ringing with short and long ringtones, cutting through our laughter, making the journey feel shorter.
I gazed out the window, letting my thoughts drift into the sky, carried by the wind, hanging with the moon, floating with the last season of its light.
The whole way back, passing a few old paths, familiar crossroads—I thought to him, it was all just muscle memory. Coming and going. Nothing left of yesterday. Changed. A new way of living. Behind the wheel, phone in hand, each day a routine. Wandering. Between the roads of Vietnam and Cambodia. Alone. Singing along to old, broken love songs from a forgotten CD, searching for fragments of a past feeling. Suddenly.
My friend asked, "Why did he choose this path?"
"It's the job. Rest feels excessive, emptiness feels overwhelming," he replied.
"As a child, I was used to the market’s murmurs. Growing up, those sounds lingered in my ears, becoming memories without me even realizing it." He laughed at himself.
I pulled my gaze back from the last moon of the season, leaving the wind standing still. Hesitated. Realized—it wasn’t just me. His soul was still tied to that old land, to a market that was yet to end, about to end, nearly ended.
- A market yet to end. Mist hanging over, two generations. A market full of murmurs from those coming and going, voices big and small, none too soft—only shouts rising above the crowd, burdened shoulders and weary backs. Struggling.
- A market about to end. Mist hanging over, one generation left. A market full of murmurs from those staying and leaving, the sound of sighs and coughs, none too soft—only shouts rising above fate, shoulders heavy, backs weary. Deep longing. Hope. That the next generation won’t struggle the same.
- A market nearly ended. Mist clinging, a lost generation. A market full of murmurs from those coming and going, voices big and small, none too soft—only shouts rising above the crowd, burdened shoulders and weary backs. Struggling. Only a few make it through. The next generation. Still longing. Still hoping.
"The people sitting in the market corners, chatting away—who knew? Somehow, they became part of my life’s rhythm," he continued.
Closing my eyes, I severed the thread tying my gaze to the moon, letting my mind wander back to the market of his life—one he still carried heavily.
He owed his life to those murmurs. Maybe that’s why he never chose a career surrounded by the hum of machines, interchangeable parts, or the monotony of an office chair.
He followed the flow of trade—buying, selling. Over the years, the murmurs hadn’t changed, only the industries and methods.
He owed his memories to the people sitting through the mist of dawn, the scorching midday sun, the indifferent afternoon breeze.
Opening his eyes, he reconnected with the moon, the sky—letting the wind carry him toward the last season of its light.
He continued. "These people never had full schooling, yet when it comes to business theories—whether learned in universities or foreign lands—they apply them better than anyone."
"You don’t believe me? Let me give you an everyday example—for those who think too rigidly. Marketing."
A seller. Remembering every returning customer, offering a jar of fermented fish to a buyer who hadn’t even decided what to cook for lunch. Hesitant. Still unsure.
The seller. "Buy it, keep it—it only gets better with time." Second-level engagement. The idea of purchase starts forming.
The buyer. Still hesitant. But now considering the benefit. Weighing the decision.
The seller. "Smells amazing, right? Go ahead, taste it." Third-level engagement. Stimulating the senses.
The buyer. Hesitation fading under the invitation. "Alright, I’ll take it."
A simple conversation, a routine transaction in an everyday market. How many see it? The marketing principles studied in theory—applied effortlessly by those who never formally learned. Life teaches. Time shapes.
Thinking back and forth—it’s a long story. Gains and losses, wisdom and folly. But for now, I just take it as his perspective. I understand.
From an unfinished moon, with the restless night wind, and sad love songs drowned by murmurs. He is still the same.
With the murmurs, deeply etched in memory, from the last seasons of the moon.
