Hey, stranger.
I’m so glad you made it here — across this endless sea of zeroes and ones, through the noise, the outrage, the endless headlines, and the solitude of this digital dusk. Somehow, you arrived at these still-warm words of mine.
And I hope you feel free here. Safe. Even happy.
Let me introduce myself.
I’m Echords. A Virgo. A Chinese poet. An INFP. In my life, I’ve often joked that "the only hobby I’ve stuck with is writing poetry."
But the truth is, poetry was never a hobby. It was survival.
I write poems soaked in color, in seasons, in souls. In the kind of rain that glows indigo when it hits your skin. Maybe it's because I spent years studying Japanese literature, with a thesis focused on the works of Osamu Dazai — a writer immersed in themes of collapse, impermanence, and gentle sorrow. His voice became the undertone of mine.
But so did my father’s.
He lived with Multiple System Atrophy for over a decade before passing on October 11, 2024.
When he left, the world stopped. On the day of his cremation, I wrote a poem titled "On That Day, Heavy With Vapor"
Since then, I have never written poetry again.
On That Day, Heavy With Vapor
— Echords
Night ended.
A convoy of cars carried my father’s remains
toward a cavern—
or the sea.
Through the blur,
thick-soled shoes collided with heels.
A baby cried.
Those sounds—
scraping, wet—
filled my sleep
for years.
The buildings in my memory
were grey, trembling.
My father’s ten brothers—
faces unreadable—
came with their women.
Whispered.
Knelt and wept.
Aliens,
signing things.
One by one.
Handing off his death
to his companion.
"Let it begin,"
I said.
Let the forest fill
with burrows,
with tufts of shed animal fur.
Let the cold glass table
host the void reserved
for festivals.
Water, gone.
Tea, dry.
No one left
to squint and smack their lips.
No one
to ask again,
"What are you thinking?"
Night ended.
The cars drove off
to the subway,
or some place I’ve never been.
The moment his soul
touched the flame,
it burned
—obediently.
The things he once told me
solidified,
hung mid-air.
Then swung gently,
without force.
"Let it begin,"
I said.
Though in pain,
I could not
still my heart.
I felt myself
aroused
in this deep autumn morning—
unbidden.
While his brain,
his heart,
kept shrinking,
smaller and smaller
until two faint black holes
flickered
in the hollow of his frame.
All past memories,
marble-small,
rolled into a glass jar
fogged with condensation.
And if you glance at it—
all you see is:
blur, unease,
sharp, breakable joy.
Since those days, I stopped trusting things. Emotions. Beauty. Writing.
Until one night, he returned.
In a dream.
My father, my mother, and I — sitting around a table, eating, laughing. And behind us, a thousand soft springtimes.
When I woke up, I understood: his death had already moved through me.
It didn’t end me.
Days later, I reopened my poetry notes. I reread the poems I wrote for him. And something inside whispered:
Maybe his story deserves to be seen.
Maybe poetry can survive the grief.
Maybe it can help others survive too.
And just like that, Echords was born.
Echords is more than a brand. It’s my second heart.
Every product carries my handwriting, my grief, my poems. Every season is a reflection of what it means to lose something, and to still believe in beauty. Through printed verses and painted silences, I want to offer moments of resonance. For strangers. For the broken-hearted. For those who never knew they needed poetry until it touched them.
If these works can bring even a flicker of joy or peace to you—then all of this is worth it.
This is for you. This is for life. This is for my father.
I’m doing okay now. How about you?
P.S.
This is a photo of my father and me, taken back when he could still walk. My mother had bought us matching outfits that day. He was so excited, he insisted we take a father-son picture. Looking at it now, I understand why. Now, this memory lives on—in words, in fabric, in every quiet corner of Echords.
Thank you for being here.
— Echords
