Sometimes I long for the rain, where silence and monotony emerge in a harmonious way, so I no longer have to ponder the origin of the world as I usually perceive. With umbrella or the forgetting to bring it, my mind is instantly diverted away from the rootless concern I have. But the rain doesn't come, or rather it does, and I'm too insensitive to see. So, more than often, when I take my imaginary walk down on the shaggy street of my unknown city, I raise my hand above my head to prevent the mental discomfort that might be enshrined by the fictional rain. The air I inhale contains a light thrill to my respiratory system - what a tangible hurt I tentatively ascertain.
In a similar way, I promenade towards the bathroom in my miniature flat several meters away - although I don't go anywhere, the advance of my mechanical steps remind me through the cracking floor that I'm going somewhere, that the difference between my seat and the toilet is fundamentally comparable to the difference between my home, in the less inhabitable part of Wuxi and a mansion, existent or non-existent, in downtown New York. My heart is calmed briefly every time I take one of those walks, so gradually the toilet has become my sanctuary. However, to depart from my seat is urgent - I have to pee, and to depart from the toilet is compulsory - I have work to do.
These abstract, utterly useless thoughts torture me - for I don't have concrete, utterly useful ones, and create a permanent illness that is the most dangerous of all illnesses. The danger that comes from it is imposed on me, but I have no way to capture it, and no way to confront it. Like I sit in a bus stop with no road beside it, and recline unconsciously that the bus has passed.
And all of sudden these sensations scatter like a whirring breeze across the noodle restaurant downstairs I've never patronized, all I feel, is the implacable sadness I suffer because I can no longer find it.
I'm well aware that the basketball court not far away is still there, lifeless because no one plays basketball in the midnight, and the school that used to give me homework is still there, unmanned because no matter how much homework there is, one has to sleep, but I'm not sentient to those places any more - I'm not playing basketball and no one gives me homework. I pretend to be frightened by this staggering epiphany, and before a microsecond, I see through my pretension and realize I just don't care.
As I'm writing to the end of this essay, I instinctively gaze through the window for the bright moon that could bring me peace and solitude, and not surprisingly the cloud is too thick for the moon to descend. But I control myself, and type these last few words:
The sparkling moon in the middle of the night sky becomes the entirety of my soul.
Sunday, September 29
Friday, September 27
9/28
A good portion of the literary works has been completed after the coitus - I recall lucidly I've read a sentence like this on some elusive website. I figure, maybe for those authors, the time they've obtained their last biological satisfaction, is the time they look into the spiritual one. Since my circumstance has defined me in such a way that love is not permissible and sexual desire obscene, nothing has changed in me other than the insidious sexism originating from my begrudging acknowledgement that there is, after all, something I dare not transcend.
However, apart from the nobility of the post-coital inspiration the famous authors enjoy, I too have the humility of my post-masturbatory sadness that is, revealingly exclusive to the participation of myself - the very sweetness and the privacy I indulge, the sense of expatriate, the vague anxiety of being inconspicuous, all enjoyed by my automatic corpse, and the indifferent mind, where, a rather metaphysical image of trillions of naked young women and men generating noise and offspring throughout the time frame of centuries, and then dying unknowingly that the very excitement they feel, is nothing inconsistent from the helplessness they suffer. And among them, many sitting on their mom's lap are only to be seated, many hailed for their commonness are only to be common, and after an incursion into life, an occasion epileptic entropy of the universe, so many return foolishly into the faith consisting of nothing but a cluster of hadrons' belief.
In the disarray of my feelings, often irrelevant memories, tanglesome conjectures appear and try to be included as something external, I've always politely refused them because they are tedious, even the vicissitude they represent is tedious. Tedium, withdrawal, intellectual shyness, and the disdain that eventually comes from all these, seem to me like the only ray of light in someone's dark, perfect hibernation, with the purpose of disturbing the original unchangingness of his anesthesia. For a time I found myself amidst the ruins of an indefinitely tall building, and for the time since I found myself doing nothing but witnessing and psychologically enhancing the very dilapidation of my unconsciousness.
Yes, the unconsciousness is my permanent docile, I'm not a college applicant, nor a person, but a stubbornly anthropocentric heresy of humanity. I've surrendered endless battles daily - as I stand up and head for the bathroom, as I sit down and eat the meal, as I lie on the bed and wait for another dream, I've hopelessly reached the truce with God. Yet my unconsciousness doesn't vanish, it remains, never in accordance to everything I pertain, never in agreement with everything I'm doing because I'm driven to, and never in the surface of my ensemble, as if it's a letter of farewell left unbid, a pencil of article unwritten, and the autobiography of a life unlived. These worthless illusions, clicks on the keyboard, large hopes and ambition cramped into disappointment, shouts without voice, weariness of having to think, gospel of non-existence, worry me and simultaneously free me from other stochastic things I worry.
Life, my specific paradigm of existing, has so much regret that doesn't belong to me. I live off it, under the pseudonym of a false identity. And I'm sleepy, so without doing anything bizarre I turn off the computer and sleep.
However, apart from the nobility of the post-coital inspiration the famous authors enjoy, I too have the humility of my post-masturbatory sadness that is, revealingly exclusive to the participation of myself - the very sweetness and the privacy I indulge, the sense of expatriate, the vague anxiety of being inconspicuous, all enjoyed by my automatic corpse, and the indifferent mind, where, a rather metaphysical image of trillions of naked young women and men generating noise and offspring throughout the time frame of centuries, and then dying unknowingly that the very excitement they feel, is nothing inconsistent from the helplessness they suffer. And among them, many sitting on their mom's lap are only to be seated, many hailed for their commonness are only to be common, and after an incursion into life, an occasion epileptic entropy of the universe, so many return foolishly into the faith consisting of nothing but a cluster of hadrons' belief.
In the disarray of my feelings, often irrelevant memories, tanglesome conjectures appear and try to be included as something external, I've always politely refused them because they are tedious, even the vicissitude they represent is tedious. Tedium, withdrawal, intellectual shyness, and the disdain that eventually comes from all these, seem to me like the only ray of light in someone's dark, perfect hibernation, with the purpose of disturbing the original unchangingness of his anesthesia. For a time I found myself amidst the ruins of an indefinitely tall building, and for the time since I found myself doing nothing but witnessing and psychologically enhancing the very dilapidation of my unconsciousness.
Yes, the unconsciousness is my permanent docile, I'm not a college applicant, nor a person, but a stubbornly anthropocentric heresy of humanity. I've surrendered endless battles daily - as I stand up and head for the bathroom, as I sit down and eat the meal, as I lie on the bed and wait for another dream, I've hopelessly reached the truce with God. Yet my unconsciousness doesn't vanish, it remains, never in accordance to everything I pertain, never in agreement with everything I'm doing because I'm driven to, and never in the surface of my ensemble, as if it's a letter of farewell left unbid, a pencil of article unwritten, and the autobiography of a life unlived. These worthless illusions, clicks on the keyboard, large hopes and ambition cramped into disappointment, shouts without voice, weariness of having to think, gospel of non-existence, worry me and simultaneously free me from other stochastic things I worry.
Life, my specific paradigm of existing, has so much regret that doesn't belong to me. I live off it, under the pseudonym of a false identity. And I'm sleepy, so without doing anything bizarre I turn off the computer and sleep.
Thursday, September 12
9/13
Hours after the midnight, on this side of the planet, where the breaths of dreamers concur with the desolate chill of an autumn night, I'm not able to sleep. Partly owing to my prolonged fascination with the air-conditioner, or rather stability, I lay on the bed like any man eternally would, contemplating a mosaic of things, and was gradually intoxicated by the complexity of life's fragments, that something presumably forgotten, has inevitably revived in my half dream, where I stand alongside imagination and its absurdity and never to realize it.
The dirty yet never cleaned keyboard of my computer, and the pile of draft paper full of formulas of various subjects that don't interest me, the closed curtain, the fan that was moaning until I closed it with impatience, aren't far from the nature outside, where the clash of molecules is interpreted as dance. The inaudible breeze smells evil under the slightly-lit brown of sky - that instantly reminds me of an ancient necropolis, full of dead bodies that were still fighting with each other before the sky had darkened. Fearless little insects are whistling in the background, as if nothing has ever happened. Yes! They are right. None of the things in the morning has happened. The cars departing from their garages in the morning only to return at night. Moguls, beggars, workers, coffee or without coffee, cancer or without cancer, wandering towards their aim aimlessly. The intensity of their insists always delights me, like I laugh and laugh at those who were amazed by an anencephalic show.
Air on this side of the window is not different at all from that of the other side. Yet to me it dignifies something. As I always long for the moment when nothing weighs on me and have never succeeded, my perception has been stereotyped by something I considered safe and reassuring. The door of my apartment is no different from that of the prison. Yet to me, the former means freedom. Just like how I lured an innocent family into believing me, life has deceived me with its irresistible hypocrisy.
I feel trapped without being so, feel homeless while having a home, and feel sad when the smile unfurls. I gasp and wake up in the middle of the night, with a tired and desperate head for expressing. I'm downloading games on Steam - that's the only reason I'm writing. I've never overcome my inertia, for I was sliding without friction, inexorably towards the abyss of peace and oblivion.
The symphony millimeters outside culminated as a sudden silence overwhelmed the close but unreal fields in front of my apartment building. Without seeing I saw, without hearing I heard, that the banner in the morning was never lowered. But I don't care, my reason stifles the occasional inconvenience of my sensibility - I'm still preparing for my exams, playing computer games, and trying to make everything before death a bit more different. I constrain myself in order to enjoy a flash of liberation, and then I re-constrain myself, awaiting another happenstance that happens to be my redemption.
The world is filled with empty souls - but at least to the souls, the world is full.
Tuesday, September 10
9/10
When I emerged from the bathroom and then instantly submerged into the bedroom, I feel a stale obligation to make this blog more private and then put something private on it. The very reason that the privacy is so valued is it always means a decrease in quality, the redundant thoughts put into the bettering of phrase arrangement, the concern that some of those acquaintances might get access. It's not the possibility of happening that disturbs me - for if for those to really happen, I'll surely deal with the outcome with ease, but the threatening feeling of so.
I, along with everyone, am driven by a shallow awareness that in fact isn't awareness at all rather than an impulse, an instinct, and a sensation to suppress the fear of being ultimately moot. I'm composed of gazillions of exquisite things, atoms, molecules, signals that synchronize them. If I'm the creator of myself, I would be dumbfounded by this masterpiece. But I'm not, for the universe is relativistic, so is my existence, so is my pride and awareness.
During the shower, I was utterly unimpressed by my male body, just like somewhere else, a female is unimpressed by her body. My mom spoke to me through the door 4 times, that the hot water has gone again, that I should be prepared to the sudden change of temperature. Almost immediately I recalled the 3 days I spent in my brother's house, they have hot water, incessant hot water like a grant from God to me and like a usual houseware to them. But what's troubling me they yearn, and what's troubling them I yearn. From the beginning of time, people yearn, so they kill each other when they don't have food, and then unite each other when they have.
I'm always inundated by the oracle that my entirety is repetitive, for the sole purpose of ending the chain of creation by myself, that I consist of things, but not things consisting of me. It's unrealistic. Just like the Greek saying I incidentally learn from Total War: Rome II, for who you are, I was; for who I am, you will be. So I'm permanently anguished, with occasional dust blown to the surface of my water, or a stone thrown slightly deeper beneath it. I'm comfortable with where life is taking me, I don't struggle to change the direction of it, nor do I know what that direction is. Because when I tried, a hell of a boy fell into the water and all my effort was not stopping him from sinking further.
The only regret I have, is I can no longer begin to.
I, along with everyone, am driven by a shallow awareness that in fact isn't awareness at all rather than an impulse, an instinct, and a sensation to suppress the fear of being ultimately moot. I'm composed of gazillions of exquisite things, atoms, molecules, signals that synchronize them. If I'm the creator of myself, I would be dumbfounded by this masterpiece. But I'm not, for the universe is relativistic, so is my existence, so is my pride and awareness.
During the shower, I was utterly unimpressed by my male body, just like somewhere else, a female is unimpressed by her body. My mom spoke to me through the door 4 times, that the hot water has gone again, that I should be prepared to the sudden change of temperature. Almost immediately I recalled the 3 days I spent in my brother's house, they have hot water, incessant hot water like a grant from God to me and like a usual houseware to them. But what's troubling me they yearn, and what's troubling them I yearn. From the beginning of time, people yearn, so they kill each other when they don't have food, and then unite each other when they have.
I'm always inundated by the oracle that my entirety is repetitive, for the sole purpose of ending the chain of creation by myself, that I consist of things, but not things consisting of me. It's unrealistic. Just like the Greek saying I incidentally learn from Total War: Rome II, for who you are, I was; for who I am, you will be. So I'm permanently anguished, with occasional dust blown to the surface of my water, or a stone thrown slightly deeper beneath it. I'm comfortable with where life is taking me, I don't struggle to change the direction of it, nor do I know what that direction is. Because when I tried, a hell of a boy fell into the water and all my effort was not stopping him from sinking further.
The only regret I have, is I can no longer begin to.