Jun Lei

United States of America

confuzzled & questioning

Message from Writer

my avatar is a piece painted by qing han, an artist who rose to fame on instagram.
on february 8, 2020, she passed away after losing a war with cancer and surviving four open heart surgeries.
her legacy is kept alive by her brother. help him and the rest of the world remember her. she was @qinniart.

the first time i saw her art, i fell in love. she sketched like a dreamer. like a writer. girls crouched in teacups. girls scattering stars and sowing dreams. whales soaring in the skies as if it were the sea. stardust freckles dancing across skin, forming constellations. flowers bursting and blooming from rib cages and wounds. inspiration dripping from ivs. she was innovative. creative. unique. magical.
she was extraordinary.

fold your dreams and fly them to the moon

March 26, 2020


once, you had a dream that tumbled from your lips in careless cartwheels, confided to any who would listen. your mother beamed like she was the sun when she heard it and told you to write it down. remember it. pin it to your heart. but you wore it on your sleeve, and it became splattered with mud and saliva, desecrated. eventually, you detached it and used the safety pin on the overalls you were quickly growing out of. then you folded up the dream. tucked it into your back pocket. hid it. but it's burning a hole in the jeans. in your heart. 

grubby hands dip into your pocket to pull out the dream and laugh. and the dream no longer burns, but your face does. you snatch it back. trap it inside your fist the way you wish you could trap your tears. 

it has no place tucked under your tongue, for it always slips from your lips. it cannot be pinned to your sleeve, a banner for all to spit on. and when you tried to hide it under a thin layer of worn fabric, it was stolen and shamed. 

so your fingers slide into your pocket and you fish a scrap of paper from their depths. it flutters, pinched between your forefinger and your thumb. you unfold it. and refold it. it is held once more between your forefinger and your thumb, but the positioning is different and so will be the motion. 

your wrist draws back. snaps forward. and a paper airplane flies to the moon. 

you are not a dreamkeeper, but the night is. 

many have tried to burgle her vault. their hands reached uselessly for what they could never touch. they gasped for air, for they could not breathe, and she smiled, simply sweeping the stars under her silken skirts. you cannot touch a star that isn't yours. you cannot steal a dream if it didn't once belong to you. 
and you know this. 

years later, you return to that sea of undulating grass under that sky of waving stars. you carry a notebook, and you wave back to the stars, a smile peeking from the corners of your lips, coaxing the shyest novas into the open plain. your fingers cradle a pen, and you use it to unlock your safe. 

i want to be a poet. 

a shooting star. a withdrawn wish. 


See History
  • March 26, 2020 - 9:54am (Now Viewing)

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  • FizzyBaguette

    Poppy is right, this is fricking gorgeous. I can see someone animating this piece, like Disney/Pixar level quality. It seems like you have withdrawn your wish because everything you've been producing has been a banger

    7 days ago
  • Poppy.M

    Wow! that is gorgeous

    7 days ago
  • Anne Blackwood


    8 days ago