Sunday, April 3

4/3

It was a green slumber; a thread of sunlight laid harmlessly on the pillow. The air was distinctly fresh. Even the sound of passing cars on the nearby street appeared to be more audible. It had been a while since he had awakened. Though even he himself failed to discern the exact moment when consciousness was regained. Just like the many days and nights before, tiresome worldly issues once again alerted him in the morning. What to think he hadn't determined. There was just a vague sense of urgency, of having not to fall asleep, of work.

And he swayed, after putting down the scorched phone from the windowsill, tentatively to the right to see - the black overcoat drooped from where the rack was hung; chopsticks, ketchup bottle, and unfinished juice from yesterday were scattered all over. All seemed too clear and real to believe. Imagination had taxed so much of his ability to perceive, that when beautiful things were put forth in front of him, he not only failed to appreciate them, but would also begin to feel a sense of disillusionment, as for him, imagination was all he had, and yet it had always tended to represent to him a disconnection from reality, a disconnection which he gradually learned to denounce.

He got up, and blathered aimlessly for four hours, from 1 PM to around 5, during which he wrote a couple of motivation letters and resumes, and decided to take shower, a familiar place of which he had written. And all of sudden, it occurred to him as he was soaping his leg that the shower felt a bit different now. From the first shower in downtown Wuxi he had only remembered distantly, to the much better ones in Jacobs University, singing became the only constant convention that he got to indulge. But he had listened to the head-banging, youthful Green Days instead of the ball-sacking, hackneyed Joyce Manor, to the befuddled Radiohead and Blur instead of the flirtatious Reflector and Hedgehog, with the exception of, perhaps, NPR. Its familiar intonation of "this is N-P-R" followed by a pointless but nonetheless catchy "a whole new way" has continued to captivate him even when many others have ceased to. But maybe because the frequent but abject name of Donald Trump repulsed him, he lost much of the drive of having to pretend to care.

Soon, as was seen retrospectively, the night befell again. And he resumed his habit of taking a walk downstairs, circling the park. This habit was begun as soon as he had arrived here. He thought that taking walks calmed him, and that perhaps hidden within it was certain transcendent meaning, like an epiphany in Buddhism or a redemption in Christianity. Thus far he'd seen none. But indeed he enjoyed these walks fondly. He put his hands in the pockets and galloped forth with what seemed to be a conviction rarely seen in his usually doubtful, uncertain world. And after all, he pondered, that might be what these walks were about in the first place.

He then dreamed, when his body slid between two street lamps, of a trapped eternity, where no weight was to be borne, no riddle was to be solved, no tear was to be shed, and nothing was to be changed. He'd just tango on with this wonderful solitude. There would be pathos and catharsis, wild rejoices, thoughtful gazes, pounding hearts, and reckless believes. He would be in company.

After all, he assured himself gently, it wasn't hurtful. He managed his smile as if it was a word to be put on the page, folded his sleeve as if it was a note to be sung, looked up, and tangoed on.