As the first rain obscured my vision of what is supposed to be seen, I came to a knowledge that the weather is connected with the status of my mood in some indiscernible way. I don't know if vice versa, but when the sun spreads over the ever changing flow of vehicle and the barely changing pavement beside it, there inherited a sense of joyfulness rare to be seen in the gloomy, forgetless days like this. And when I recall ambiguously to the distant things that happened in some corner of my mind, I do perceive there a mild distinction that separate them from the usual things that usually occur to me, the colorfulness of every angle, and the saturation of that colorfulness, all seems unavailable elsewhere other than the rosy garden at the gate of banality. Meanwhile, I have the certitude that their existence was once a part of me, and I wistfully disregard it for the uncharted probability of the future.
Now I sit behind the curtain that perpetuates the thoroughness of the blockage, and only the clicks of raindrops could remind me of the relevance outside. In my Sony Android phone I installed an ad-replenished free app called Sleeping. One of my favorite soundtracks contained therein is a seemingly real-time recording of the sound of rain, which turns out to be a few syllable incorporated as a form of completeness. I don't care about the regularity or the repeating nature of that soundtrack, nor the soothing effects it touts to bring, I only attend to the tranquility of that experience, as any of an affordable difference beside my chronicle pillow can bring me a moment of ecstasy, which is precisely the motivation of my bothering to tap on the screen. I see the entirety of myself in those things that now are presented in the form of loosely interrelated fragments. And my seeing them was as ridiculous as the haphazard result of a cat's montage.
My uncle, the quasi-stepfather of no one else but me, just came in to ask for the structures of another 5 Chinese characters that he encountered problem printing. For my severely limited poll of real learning, I had to type them on the computer, and replicate them exactly on the paper with my indecisive left hand. Before his entrance, without earthquake of anything impossible to concur with my state of affair, I felt like drowning into the absolute depth of the universe, that total directionlessness and a defiance of everything except the being for the sake of being. The norepinephrine secreted in my cortex makes my brain functioning in a deformed way, and puts me into a reverie of something peculiar no different from that of anyone else.
No need to confirm the existence of happiness, no desire to dispute, and no power to alter, it was a peaceful delight that sees through the representation of the substance and definition. I shouldn't do anything, to deter, or to facilitate its progress. For either action will go against its essential meaning, and thus will contaminate and diminish its purity.
I made it again up to 2300 in my self-monitored practice test, with materials exclusive to the legality in China, and a misfit 0.5mm refill in my 0.7mm pencil. It should be an occasion to do something meaningless and entertaining. But an inscrutable misgiving inevitably weighs on me, a collective mishmash of conscience, an arid yearning for the real, objective and eternal accomplishments of a human soul, weighs on me and turns into burning tears and laughters in the center of my heart. I resent the role of luck, the instantaneous condition of the rules that government the ensemble of everything, that plays in the results of my test, and my college, and my life. But with this longing nothing is settled but a begrudging acknowledge of its authority. My sensibility becomes lethal as I begin to walk and find a can of milk in the plastic box few steps away.
I'm challenging something and I don't know what it is, and no consequence will emerge, no negation will exert, no awareness of this endeavor, only left with myself a floundering consciousness of having been an infringement of someone's simplistic gentleness, of this guilt of not being able to commit a crime, and of a crime of thinking about committing it. And this is nonsense. And the formless, non-existent Gods laugh and make me interpret that laughter.
A vast calm, a drained stamina, precociously or posthumously, slave me, electrify me with black and dull infinity, only for the reason of revoking my mask so that I feign thoroughly into the world of nothing but reality.
P: May God bless the so little I've asked.
