The construction of the shopping mall just outside my apartment building began as I began to talk with Xu regarding issues about the future. The noise was repellent, but somewhat I felt a tranquility that enabled me to ignore what's happening outside and delved into the retrospection and imagination. For the ordinary people as my classmates were, only three of us dared to escape what's been defining, and stood beside as spectators of vicissitude of life's mystery.
I changed a lot since I was out of school, but with the realization that my own change is heartlessly irrevocable, I valued the past, be it innocence or stupidity, even much more than I could be aware of.
Everything that's related to the past had a sense of history - my classmates, are no longer my classmates, they're people from a parallel world, the rumbling couple in the window across the building, or that infant who cries at an indeterminate time, and an indeterminate place.
My motto has always lain in the future, I believed that my regret shouldn't last longer than 15 seconds. Now that I have enough self-discipline to implement those rules, and I've deeply learned that, everything is meaningless and dull other than happiness, but happiness never lasts. My lack of interest in those previously interesting things, and lack of inspiration from my former inspiration, my exhaustion and indifference of that lack, constitute a major portion of my inner self. As if keeping the ambivalence means a burst of flame in the ocean stoic and lifeless for millenniums. That anguish is a sheet of glass, transparent as it is shallow, predestines the inside and outside, provides a sense of security from madness, and education from banality. It's misconstrued, pompous and self-imposed, but I still need it, I need that restrain so that I yearn for something that's unobtained, and unobtainable. This is the last moral citadel of humanity, the dim light in a desolate unchangingness, and going beyond that, will mean not only questioning of the validity of every existence, but also a thorough negation of all principles, all persistence, all those to worship and to deplore.
The past occurred to me, in the form of gratuitous fragments, without context or language, and overwhelmed me in every aspect of my life. And I, however rebellious, must prostrate, for the slight of that heritage, is the beginning of incongruity and illogic, which are the premises of any action, the first wave on the chain of possibility. It excludes the voice that's been calling me since the beginning of time, but it intends to, the process of being deceased is a process of being detached, from an omnipotent curiosity to a resignation to the fact of not being able to escape. The past suppresses me. It's the truth of nothing so that I want to find that truth. The future eludes me so that I want to know what's behind it. The present is a constant ephemeral, I dwell in it, but I ignore it like I ignore the wrong alarm clock every Saturday morning.
I dream of being a myopic, who feel content of having kept breathing and eating in consecutive days, but that's contemptible. I dream of being an emperor, who have everything except content, but that's equally contemptible. I dream of myself, and try to de-acquaint him, so that I can keep that sensation of being unreal, distant and intriguing, I'm tired but I refuse to beware of it, at least not now, when the lucid drunkenness still yet vanishes, before the monotonous repetition of the metaphysics of life inundates me, and dissolves me.
