Several months ago, when I was still dangling in the campus and enjoying my blatant immature, I spent several hours chatting with one of my formulaic social life, about the prospect of going to somewhere other than my usual realm, an unknown country vernacular to an unknown language, so that I could take advantage of my delicate pretension by refusing to be understood by both the victim and the original person who I self-flawlessly imitated. And now half of that has become true - the reality ironically attests to my oracle, and another half is true as well, true in my imagination and the other people's impression of me based on the outward incarceration of that imagination. Perfectionism sure does play a large role, but pessimism plays a larger one in my aversion to becoming either ignorable or glaring.
My mom went to her mom after preparing my lunch, and while it was still lunchtime before her departure she didn't forget to urge me the necessity of dinner, which, despite her extortion and my impatience, I have skipped. I skipped it, for the primary reason of an insecurity that prevents me from doing anything that will not contribute to the result 10 days later, and a further squeamishness of my incessant verbosity on that issue.
I attempted to add something interesting to this post by introducing a third-person description about my brother. But I should confide that I severely failed. I've always been writing using the first person as if I'm the center of everything - I minimize the appearance of character, object, location or time, and only allow their entrance for the structure of the passage must be substantial in one way or another to be appreciated, by myself or a random boring reader dwell in the online community for the comfort of deserting the reality. I too, am agitated by the magic of putting down my thought, in a refined language, turn my misgiving into something within the grasp, contemplate the origin of my emotion, and feel the contemplation with my emotional mind. I write, without any consideration of the accuracy of my arrangement, or the veracity of my thinking, or the return from a distant future, because to feel innate is to feel everything, cramped and squished into nothing.
One miraculous aspect about my deplorable phone is that it not only restarts itself at a regular basis, but also reduces the demand of recharge. The former is my frustration of that device, and the latter is the consequence of my frustration. However, I'm imagining that I become an animal or just crawl out my tombstone erected several hundred years ago and since then untonsured. I will feel privileged to have this device in my hand, and see my manipulation of the docile icons flowing mid-air for my convenience. I will trade my land, clothes, or anything I thought was precious centuries earlier, for the use of that cell phone. But instead, now I'm renouncing its mystique and opposing its setback. I sit on the rooftop, using my mobile phone for the first time and having the starlight as romantic as my fantasy, and laugh on the chair on the 7th floor I'm currently sitting. After all, to have experienced or have not, to have died or have not, is only a blink of the eyes and when I open them again… I will not open them again. And I'm satisfied, as satisfied as the time when I have never existed, and view life from my never-existed point of view.
I seek for nothing like a decorational chrysanthemum beside the road, breathing in and out the nitrogen dioxide and thinking the smell is fragrant for its poison. It's the fermentation of a stagnation, and when I express it, it instantly become the stagnation of a fermentation, which judged from any angle, is illogical and quirky. I'm dizzy and I'm conscious, I'm empty and stuffed, for tomorrow morning, I will do the same thing and rationally wait for a radically different outcome.
I don't know because I can't know, and I know, for I know I can't. I've lost oneself, that's why I've begun this writing. And may I thank myself for bringing this.
