Sunday, September 11


I belong to a rare subset of people who are both young and prone to a collection of metaphysical contemplations that are more affable for people of older ages. Since when people are older, as they inevitably are, they would have suffered more, and thus become more lucid of the various absurdities that humans naturally harbor. But I am also one of those who, when considered broadly as a whole, isn't special at all, but rather is only aloof. My capacity seldom extends beyond what I write, and even what I write offers no value in a material sense. The act of writing to me, is merely a pastime I savor for the feeling of having written something. Whether I'm well-read or well-versed is of no concern to me. Like the decidedly subpar teddy bear at the machine, I write not for the aesthetic pleasure of my prose, nor for the philosophical poignancy of my words, but for a simple, transient hedonistic sensuality that would drive others to post pictures on Instagram or to write Facebook posts for the likes of strangers. I am no different from other people in all aspects however difficult it is for me to perceive it that way, shallow and thoughtless, ignorant and sad, like the old poet in bed, patting himself to sleep not with mellow lyrics but with a soft voice.

Many things I have heartily championed have turned out to be futile and useless. And other things, while corporeal and commonplace, have taken up a central role in my life. The bard at Alexanderplatz sang yesterday "pitiful are those who sleep in suit". And I just so happened to walk past him in suit, letting out only an inner burst of awkward laugh and a half-joking admission of truth. However, even truer is the fact that the bard was wearing his non-suit, broadcasting the twaddle of his guitar to a non-audience, only to return later to his earthy abode for the mere continuity of life. Till this day, I have not yet met with another person who at least, is not only alive at the moment, but is also partially alive in all moments, keeping a conscious note of the innocence of youth, the banality of adulthood, the oblivion of elderliness, and the dark nothingness of an ultimate decease. Perhaps I have met them indeed, but perhaps their experiences and upbringings accustomed them to seeing things more positively, and thus differently from how I would see them.

The warm quietude of a Berlin afternoon acquaints me well. The ravens are crowing down the street, around a small patch of food beside a small patch of bush I would never be able to see. Their sounds confer what the yellow sun, green field, and blue ocean have been conferring for millenniums ever since the planet became what it is. And here we humans intoxicate ourselves with wines and breakfast and laptop and a beautiful song. The kid who asked me astrophysical questions is there; the cashier who laughed with me at the Chinese cabbage and kohlrabi is there; even the chatter of bartenders and patrons at the anonymous club is clearer when seen nostalgically; while I sit where I've always sat, forever listening to their buzz.

A distant siren roams by, and breaks off the silent monotony of my observation. And I realize, on this dirty office chair with the usual vividness of my indifference, that the walls surrounding me right now, the windows through which I sometimes see and hear, and this apartment in Christinenstrasse, are my exile. I clasp behind the windowsill like a prisoner behind bars, a widow inside the carriage, and an orphan behind the doors, only farther from their freedom, their husband, and their mom.

And such and such, I capitulate to reality with a false feverishness echoed by the room.

Monday, September 5


The chilling breeze of an autumn night began to blow. Drizzles poured mildly over the eaves of the apartment building. I was close enough to still hear the wild and sporadic laughters of the kids from the playground. Yet after the distinct sound of tires brushing against the newly wet ground, the laughters disappeared, as well as many other sounds that usually lingered amongst the air at this time of the day. I was sitting in the vacated room opposite to where I used to sleep, accompanied by no more than the black cat on the head of whom I liked to pet. It was quite cathartic, to briefly stay away from the computer, and just listen to what the world had to offer when it was unhindered by the electric swarms of noises and of colors.

Three large cranes, all erected when my freshness of starting a new job was still alive, were towering against the faint orange grey of a distant dusk. Every morning I saw them; yet every morning I passed before them like the motorcade of an unknown official, condescending and slight. But I watched them more closely this evening. It was not that my eyes could tell their shapes with better integrity, nor that my understanding of the functionality of the cranes would improve, just that, I became, albeit very briefly, devout to the cranes that had been so marginal yet so integral to my identity. The basketball court where, for a not-so-short period of time, I played basketball daily, and the Momos dumpling restaurant, where I had wanted to visit and decided not to, and the Rewe supermarket, with its friendly hopeful homeless guy sitting at the front door, all lay metaphysically dormant, shrouded by the torpor and dread of the weather turning cold. Strangely I had been more careless and glad last winter. Perhaps, back then everything was more withdrawn and decided, and I more churlish and forgiving.

The crescendo of blue began to command a blacker hue. Throughout this day, Berlin was utterly cloudy. During the night, the clouds would be less discernible, and so would the stars. I looked outwards without nostalgia nor hope. It was one of the looks I routinely posed when something had puzzled me, with my mouth half-open, as if whispering the silenced words. Indeed, it was puzzling, the monochromatic purity of the night, almost like a brutalist building without its eager edges and looming contour, only more simplistic, and more straightforward. I felt more puzzled as I looked up in the sky, the all-encompassing dome under which all but a few of my race had dwelled. Wars were ravaged, wonderful stories told, wine drunk from the glass, the songs sung at the fire, the distant pleasures I described lyrically, and the nearer ones I remembered but neglected. Yet the darkness of every night had eaten them all, leaving only the skeletons, bare and confined to the weariness of their afterlife.

Suddenly a small gust of wind nudged against my upper arm. I closed the window, severing the flimsy tie I had with the already invisible sky. Indoors, surrounded by the slow buzz of the heater, and the dizzying snide of the television one room and a corridor away, I wallowed in my bed with a smartphone to a gradual halt.

I woke up gracelessly, with a deep longing of going back to sleep. After three snoozes, I sluggishly braced my body upwards. Today could be my final trip to Bremen before spring next year, and I foresaw it as being rather placid and repetitive.

Another day started without my conscious knowing of it. Only in my weakened memory of what was yesterday and the day before did I infer that indeed I had slept, and that the planet had already completed yet another cycle of rotation. I was riding on the InterCity train from Hamburg to Bremen. The trees and bushes flew by the windows on both sides, and were pigeonholed into fleeting shades of green and gray. The wagon ran on a constant speed that was already beyond the comprehension of the human brain. And I was like a willingly startled cat, boxed up in the cabin to be sent to a familiar strange vet.

Bremen, an objectively neutral place, when coupled with the various things I had learned to associate with it for the past two years, turned decidedly dolorous. It was earthly and real, and therefore more relatable to the emotions felt during a true heartbreak, rather than those invented when reading a romance novel. I hadn't got a useful word to say about it. In Bremen I was more speechless than I was anywhere else.

I began to miss Berlin almost instantaneously. Like a lost child yearning for the fragrance of homemade bread, which for him didn't exist, I yearned for the serenity of a salaried life, which for me, likewise didn't exist.

I was still quite familiar with Bremen's public transportation system, as well as different Starbucks locations without the aid of Google Maps, so I was able to order Caramel Macchiato this time. In the taste of it, there was simultaneously a sweetness reminiscent of the local cuisines of where I came from, and a loosely bitter touch of coffee that for me, pertained firmly to a western ideal that wasn't included in my original upbringing. On the chair with steel framework and a black woven cushion made from bamboo, I mentally curled up into a ball, protected from the incessant rumble that was Bremen.

I envisaged, with a level of earnestness likened to that of a man's tears, how marvelous, how staggering, how vastly cherishable must it be, if in the future I finally freed myself of the fears and uncertainties that were marauding me now. But I could never be too sure of it - my life was a book that had been merely initiated, but remained unplanned, and unplannable.

And thus, without gaining any new perspective into my existing pool of reusable knowledge, I took a ceremonial sip from the empty coffee cup, rose up, and left.

The sky cleared as I left Bremen. I became calm and joyful.

Sunday, September 4


What is there to be written about the life of an office clerk? While the receptionist could be a game enthusiast, the cleaning lady a loving mother, the IT specialist a geek, a clerk always seems a clerk, one of those looming yet anonymous figures at the corners of the office, mostly typing on the keyboard of who knows what words, and occasionally staring somewhere with an attentive gaze of empty thoughts. In those moments, it seems almost counterintuitive to envision for the office clerk a congenial group of friends, a colorful arrangement of events, or a distinguished habit of enjoying a series of refined tastes after the daily ritual has finished. The stern, inexorable face of blandness and bore extends beyond the boundary of a firm, leaps past the crowds and restaurants and tram stations, and terminates only in bed where the loose cotton collar of the pajamas replaces the strangle of the tie, bringing in an unfamiliar, even hostile sensation of freedom and aimlessness - only before sleep does the clerk get to undress from his hefty costume and entertain a shiver of animalistic sloth, perhaps just like a woman after her sixties, when the urge to feign a layer of femininity begins to subside, and when scarcely anyone would pay attention.

But according to the more established, and hence more resigned of the clerks, life with all of its moments of hope and ecstasy, is fundamentally unglamorous. The majority of those who take the pleasure of walking under the trees entitle to it by bearing the grind and angst that came as a price for one's subsistence; the couples who buy movie tickets and popcorns could afford them precisely because they have earned their money, paid their rent, and would not mind spending some extra time having fun; the pianist performs flawlessly on-stage for he has played endlessly off of it; even the smile of a clown could not be lastingly maintained without some aching of the muscle. And hence to be a clerk, a hermit, a clown, or a poet is to be no different, all are but gimmicks that they deployed for the comfort and illusion of the sense of belonging with which they gild themselves. These are ways in which most of the people live by; even for the few who are accustomed to life's tedium, they serve as rare solaces, that after all, to have a mode to follow is to have a pat on the back, however wicked and impenetrable things are to become.

Perhaps, the clerk has already known, that if life is the confusion over a long road trip leading nowhere, then it is infinitely easier to be thoughtless and vague than to be pensive and agonized. For after all, with only the intermittent reassurance of voices of the radio and the engine that seems to accompany it forever, the trip will consist mostly of a gradual process of realizing, and reconciling with its inevitable end. And hence if to be thoughtless and vague is to desert from an unwinnable war, those who fought heroically and dramatically face their demise quicker, after which they experience neither joy nor honor; however, for those who have the foresight to plan out the details of the retreat before the battle has even begun, the pleasure lies in the aftermaths, where they gloat at the graves of the heroes, and revel in the unique privilege of being able to do so.

However, having not the courage of entering a battle, nor the ignorance of a useless escape, the clerk chooses to play along with what life has to offer with only half-hearted interest, and half-hearted remorse.

Then, beneath the green of an Excel sheet, he lights up his imaginary cigarette for a subconscious smoke.

Wednesday, August 17


"Invalidenpark!" the usual mechanical voice of the BVG tram announced on my way to Berlin Central Station. This was 5 AM in the morning. I had woken up early to embark upon another journey to Bremen. Perhaps because I was half asleep, or perhaps because of the startlingly cold weather, there was an element in the voice that somehow charmed me. My mind seemed to wander back to the winter mere months ago, when I was in every respect clueless about the happenings that I would eventually encounter.

My memory of that time was harshly diluted. But I still remembered when the conditions had been the direst, I would take one of those nightly walks around the small patch of green in front of the building. I framed in my writings of those walks in such a way so that they appear less miserable than they actually were. And when every once in a while, another person showed up and interrupted my monologue (those monologues were often vague and ceaseless thoughts that I verbalized for the reassurance of hearing a man's voice), I would let out a silent gasp of exasperation, yet at the same time walk by, seemingly unaffected. I would prefer that a stranger kept away from the truth of another stranger, and sometimes, away from me.

I was smart enough, or to put it more accurately, conscious enough since the word "smart" has a certain connotation I visibly lack, to understand deeply that I was trekking on a road unknown and unguided, that a certifiable portion of my future was largely dependent on coincidences and luck. But it didn't prevent me from temporarily acknowledging, that I was the freest when I put my feet onto the ground. And my days back then centered around those walks.

Events quickly turned, even disfigured in the coming weeks. Maybe I got lucky, maybe my merit had made the gradual transition between pretense and substance, I got interviews waiting ahead in a consecutive line. And I played as wildly and as exuberantly as I could in these selection processes, priding them as my window into a world that had hitherto been unseen. I disposed of my ragged t-shirts in favor of suit and tie, and washed away my weary smile to put on a professional smirk. The change took place drastically yet unnoticeably. And it appeared, upon retrospect, that whatever tricks I had previously prized to console myself, were no more than the false and futile attempt at resuscitating a man who's already doomed to a swift and imminent death.

I discovered, that philosophy and wit, while quite helpful in alleviating the sufferings when there is too much to endure, and in calming the fidgety spirits when things go well, aren't too conducive to delivering me the truth. They aren't something I could resort to when I found myself lost or mired, or overly jubilated. They are merely an enlargement of my own will, and of my own emotions. This is not a comforting fact for someone who believed firmly the virtue of wisdom and ingenuity. But life after all, has always been a sort of giant pain in the ass that isn't terribly easy to waddle through.

This small detour to Bremen, bland and uneventful as it felt, wasn't entirely useless. It afforded me a scant opportunity of sitting down and letting loose, as I spent more than half a day on the train and another half on the bench in the hill by Am Wasser. In Berlin there's also a road called Unter den Linden, which though close to Am Wasser in grammar, is an entirely different place. Unter den Linden with all of its grand shops and theatrical venues, is but a part of my daily commute; yet Am Wasser is my retreat. In this alien place I was once superbly familiar with, I got to look towards the past with more compassion and gratefulness.

The sky with its blue, the tree with its green, and the rustles of the leaves, the combination of them all, added with a tinge of smell, sweet and moist, struck me as supremely mesmerizing. In it there's a certain sense of destiny that went far beyond what the word beauty could capture; in it there's an outstanding stubbornness, that even when the planet itself has perished, the stubbornness would persist. I used to denounce my group of friends who disliked such stubbornness, or "vasanas" in one of their Buddhist terms. It was only by sitting on the bench did I realize that, indeed, the stubbornness they had despised has also been elusive to me.

Recently I came across a piece in one of the older issues of the LRB. Despite being heavily abridged by its author, there's a clip in it that profoundly moves me:

"At 7 a.m., 'in a square on the outskirts of Padua, New Zealand soldiers are shaving, their mirrors placed on the side of their tanks.' At 7.30 a.m. 'twenty-year-old German Lieutenant Claus Sellier, wearing only his underwear, is looking out of the window of the Hotel Gasthaus zum Brau in Lofer, Austria.' And so on for another 250 pages and forty-odd hours. We even find out what Alistair Cooke had for breakfast in San Francisco (not grilled mutton kidneys but 'two eggs over easy, sausages, pancakes and syrup'), and learn that 'the dour-looking Molotov has a softer side.'"

Even when times are the most wicked, shaving, underwear, breakfast, and a hidden soft chord of the human heart march on.

Sunday, August 7


Mine is a process of transforming, slowly, from an enthusiastic young man whose believes are often indefensible but unusually firm, to a slightly older chap who appears often dull with only occasional rejoices to seep through. I make more reasonable decisions, culture an instinct of deliberation, and have become a pupil of trade-off - in all, my lack of vivacity is a conscious decision.

Telltales I once lightly sneered at turned out to be true, and even inevitable, that a young man loses his vibe with age, however he might like to prefer the otherwise. Though my capitulation, so shall I say it, didn't come without a few attempts at resistance. One year ago I was hopelessly in love with a woman whose name I hardly recall, and after that I fell trap into an entrepreneurial venture with an equally laudable amount of zeal. Both of them have now faded into my own versions of the telltale, at which others could continue to sneer.

Since my dusts appear to have settled at the moment, I console myself with the fact that while many things might have changed, I am still here for my own company. Even though the "friends" I play Pokémon Go with are purely fictional, the "family" with whom I always keep in touch are merely a collection of distant figures with but a few loose threads of the filial strings connected to me, and the "cold-pressed juice" I bragged about is what I have only imagined to drink. It suddenly occurs to me that, quite frankly I have taken such a deviating path that I am the only person I know who's really on it. I am all alone here, choosing to neglect this fact not due to an absence of care, but due to an absence of power. I'm like a child at the kindergarten, delaying sleep to construct a blanket fort whose protection dissipates and ugly side revealed with every change in posture.

Sandra Mattke, whimsical as it is to enlist her name here, has also decided to leave. For all the polite exchanges between us, like the girl from Bavaria, she has left unannounced, taking the remnant of her vacation quota with her. I still remember a time when I would joyfully leap forth to her workplace, and ask her about her first aider training, and occasionally, her baby. In her look, there was a certain unwillingness that I caught but paid no attention to. I presume, that unwillingness had already foreboded my surprise. I feel the urge to mention her in this passage, for I'm adamant in the fact that if I don't take the opportunity to mention her now, I might as well never do. (Mysteriously, or rather not so mysteriously, Sandra has returned.)

It's hard to discern the state of the affairs for the adults. Someone once told me that maintaining relationships with other people is never for the folstering of human togetherness, but is rather for having fun, and for being able to continue to have fun even when a portion of the circle have left. There is also a slang from my country that is aptly wise: whoever is the first to take it seriously, would be the first to lose. Yet I have always failed to imagine either a circle incomplete or an attitude towards life giddy and unattending. But, when it comes to relationships, personal willfulness hardly ever matters.

It's… it's just like that, myriads of fragmented moments, of chatting under the linden tree with a gang of friends, of packing up under the yellow light to set off for another city, of an apprehension towards the unknown of the future, of a regret that fails to die with the past, of piano keys, of porns, of the orange juice, of the anonymous tunes sung at the shower head… everything seems sensible in their moments; yet when put together, all the frames, they are just beyond me, leaving me humbled by the grandeur and minusculity of an organism's journey.

Thursday, August 4


Today, while feeling formidably lost as usual, I decide to jot down a few things on the page. Actually it wasn't today when I made such a decision; I have been trying to come up with something for at least a few weeks. The environment, I suspect, simply has changed, leaving less and less room for acts like this one that won't put forth anything immediate, or anything at all. But whatever, though I deem writing an agonizing process, and my works mundane and borderline intolerable, from them, strangely I still indulge a fair amount of pleasure.

Recently my most noteworthy event has been the internship at E.ON. I had always thought that words like "career", "job", and "internship" are antidotes to my writerly pursuit. And indeed, in it I have thus far see nothing particularly penetrating nor inspiring. Corporations are just places where a large amount of ordinary people get to maintain their livelihoods, and a few elites, while unwavering in their own elevation, try to be at the same time cautious and respectful towards the things they don't necessarily cherish. However, I must admit, I have found the internship quite fulfilling, to such an extent that I detest calling it an internship. I prefer it be called a job, and I an employee. Only on the seventh floor of Jägerstraße have I seen a tangible glimmer of hope, of finally having an income to call my own, of taking responsibility, and of gaining, once again, the privilege of relaxing after work. I also see real people, with whom I have only acquainted, struggling in their respective forms to come in terms with life. They don't truly love their jobs - no one would genuinely do, but they don a level of professionalism that has gradually blended in with skin, with only a trace of fatigue in their smiles to remind me that they are human, and they are humane.

Recent developments didn't afford me a lighthearted mood. Since I realize, that what I have found fulfilling is only transient. What's not transient, are the conditions that have been engraved in me since I made the decision to set off for Germany. These are the conditions of indebtedness, of poverty, of the feeling of being naturally disadvantaged in many ways, and of having to pretend, imperfectly, that none has happened. The polarizing ideologies of the world, and the misfortune of finding no book that accords my taste, among many other things, further dampened my lowness.

Occasionally though, like a baby girl bursting into tears over a bar of candy, I would burst into humor simply to entertain the people at the lunch table. I mock stupidities and tell jokes that are objectively funny, and make everyone around me laugh. I tease about an Excel mistake and delight in it, wholeheartedly, committedly. It seems that, after all, I could still be an interesting person.

The girl from Bavaria, a third generation tenant to reside in my landlord's apartment, left yesterday. She borrowed the iron from me to prepare for her job interview on Monday, and went away unannounced. For a moment I still had the impression that, behind the locked doors she was still there - perhaps sitting on the bed where I used to sleep, behind the rack of laundry hung to dry. But she's indeed gone. Her door veiled open like an old wound, revealing the inside - no more clothes, computers or mugs, only an array of old furnitures, covered in a layer of dust that was once scattered amongst the air, remained. A profound emptiness suddenly struck me, once more, once more, I'm the only person standing to bear - I'm the immovable for I have nowhere else to move to; I'm the endurant for I have to endure; and I seem strong for if I'm weak, I'll most certainly perish in an unnoticeable way.

Inside my room and inside my office are two divergent worlds. If in them there is anything constant it must be a struggling soul, whose back is bent forward to gaze, to see and to hope, who was once interesting but became less interesting due to life's weight. He's exhausted, bleeding and in constant, mildly excruciating pain, but he's still fighting, he's still alive, his stance is still, as always, tall and upright.

Saturday, July 23


I particularly like the moment when I turn off the computer, and all the hustles and bustles of what I have been watching settle down. In the ending of it all there's a certain color that pertains to my intellectual landscape, an expressive but colorless color.

I enjoy watching YouTube videos, pornographies, and in general anything online with considerable delight. Yet at the same time I'm always faintly aware that, whatever is depicted in those videos, while probable and vivid, isn't always true. They could be real, factual and objective events, yet they may not be true to me the same way a wheel is not true to a leg - they serve an identical goal, yet are completely divergent in design and construction.

If in these videos I seek energy, arousal and joy, it is in the aftermaths of them that I find relief, comfort and reassurance. After all, for all these years, I was able to carry on precisely because I spared myself the foolhardy notion of having to belong, so that whenever something uncanny happens, I could always have a rest in the philosophical smughole I dug for myself. Uncanny things, and the refusal of them, or rather, to put it in a more pertinent way, the reluctant acceptance of them are quite commonplace in a range of issues that I deal with. So over time, a code of conduct has been cultivated in me to take precaution in everything I encounter, that I'll be ready when they precipitate on me. This precaution, I figure, while made with the soundness of a reasonable mind, is what prevents me from calming down, and settling in, and what causes the anxiety that propels me forward.

If briefly I allow myself to look into the past when I was more innocent, I would see essentially only two things - beauty and deception from one angle, and dereliction and neglect from all the others. I used to fabricate the former as truth, and deprecate the rest as marginal and unimportant. For it is always in the former I feel a sense of sanity, coziness, or to be more accurate, from the warmth of lying on a tiger's stomach. It is not a terribly suitable way to live I entirely know, but if otherwise left on the meager, greenless soil I'm usually left with, I face no option but to either live like a salvage or die. These were once very hard questions, existential questions indeed. And only now do I have the leniency and composure to ask them.

But despite having spent an enormous amount of time probing for answers to these questions, I concede to admit that in both the questions themselves and the attempt to answer them, lies a youthful sentimentality similar to that of a sexual attraction, where the minuscule distinction of organs is enlarged to form the basis of the type of human relationship we almost religiously uphold.

I have always been firmly opposed the concept of a morality test, simply because human morality itself is an exclusive social construct that becomes invalid without context. Now, I emerge to become an opponent of questioning the meaning and teleology of life, for the meaning and teleology of life is, likewise, a social and mental construct. I believe, a truly intelligent person therefore would be able to avoid these questions altogether and indulge himself in the shallower but more quantifiable pursuits of education, family and wealth, although whether I am that person remains unknown.

Compared with other people I know, many of who could be considered exceptionally capable, I seem much more prone to retain a level of self-consciousness where there shouldn't be. One ought not to worry about the insignificance of life while creating PivotTables in Excel sheets; one ought not to deplore the rudimentariness of human sexuality while masturbating; one ought not to think eating animals and keeping them as pets as utterly incompatible facts.

The main reason, I have discovered, is that I have passion in nothing. Nothing realistic has ever interested me so much that I would fully allow myself to be passionate about it. And hence, what sustains me now is but a mere and visceral sense of shutting up, and carrying on.

Thursday, June 30


Since it is rationally untenable for me to capriciously give up whenever something fails to please me, and also, since I cannot afford to resort to hatred, self-pity or slack in light of a quandary, I must find some other things that bring me comfort yet at the same time satiate my need for verity and expediency.

Many of my colleagues have the fortune to be brought up in religion. They find great joy and purpose in the companionship and rituality of the otherworldly affairs. And others, pampering in melodramas and reality shows, enjoy the ease of not having to think. I'm one of those who, while disputing the former and abhorring the latter, seek to derive consolation from forms that only speak to a few. Literature, classical music, and punk rock, these almost utterly useless and "pussy"-like pursuits are the ones to chastise me when I sink to self-derogation, to sing me lullaby when I wake up in fear of life's weight, and to encourage me when I despair in mistake, failure or impatience. They are the benevolence that has been left with me to cherish.

I needn't reminder that I had not the privilege of a sound environment, of a caring family, or of a likable circle. And these circumstances have perhaps been embedded so deeply within me that now I tend naturally towards withdrawal and timidness. For the people who touch my outward sincerity at the surface, I'm too exuberant and dry; for the rest who reach a little deeper, I become like a substandard Russian nesting doll, crumbling and deforming with each layer. This is my reality, proclaimed in an ever foreboding, inescapable tone.

So, having neither the snug protection of family and friends, nor the establishment of study and career, I'm hung mid-air, grappling with what appears to be a vestige of the passion that drove me here, and of the shred of light I thought I would be welcoming. Tenacity, the imaginary cigarette I sometimes smoke downstairs, and the occasional text messages to nudge my leg, are all but the fragile, evanescent norm I upkeep.

But with the ultimate got-ya question to any literary folly, "what's the point", I would just apologize and begin to chuckle and laugh uncontrollably. Haha, look at the anachronism, the naivety, the self-importance, and the whines to no other's interest. Look at them, quite funny actually.

Just this morning, I have realized that there are many things in the apartment I dwell that hadn't caught my attention and was beginning to. The mangoes left on the fridge to dry, the dirty dishes unwashed, and the eternal floor stain that always comes back despite the landlord's scant effort to cleanse it. I had considered these traits of the apartment physically disconnected from me, that even though I maintain a fair level of dishevel on my own, it is due to another entirely different reason. And I'm wrong, wishfully so. There appears to be, certain uncertain harmony between what I could have for myself and who I am.

I have always had the peculiar sensitivity to where I belong and where I want to go. However, it never occurs to me that, indeed, such sensitivity is rather already a dumbing down of reality than an acute, factual awareness of it. Only this morning, in the things I've long smelled and seen, does it presents itself clearly to me.

Among other things I've likely known, I take literature simultaneously as a selfish means and as a noble end. I dress myself in two-piece wool suit and dangle the employee card every day precisely because while they are now mine, they could as well not be.

For the foreseeable future though, I'd keep writing whenever I feel the need to complain, keep dressing formally whenever I still work for E.ON, and keep being self-righteous albeit I yet am.