If I could choose, I would be a summer bug.

A cicada would be a good choice; a unicorn bug is not bad. But it's difficult to listen to a cicada's hum in a city that has less and less greenery. Sitting at home in the afternoon you'd be more likely to hear the clicking sound of a traffic signal.

But that's not a cicada.

I used to hate cicadas. They were noisy. But as the years passed I began to find a Zen-like quality in them. Their hum, low and calm, suggested self-reflection, untouched by the outside world yet focused on inner stillness. I grew attracted to them. While everyone was out in the summer having fun, these insects would instead choose to hold onto branches, singing the same low-key hum. They'd never attempt a higher tone or a sweeter note, relying instead on a low and common voice.

There's an old saying: "A summer bug never knows ice." A bug born in the summer also dies in the summer and never experiences winter, never understands ice. I once found this ephemeral creature pitiful. Now, I'd like to think that it enjoys a type of happiness — going through life under the brightest and warmest sun.

By Yi-hing Ong

*Translation from Chinese article.