After my mom went out in her unique, post mid-age walk of begrudging, she brought in a bottle of coconut juice, which she has purchased during her trip in Yunnan. I always doubt the necessity of buying at the tourist spot when everything is readily available on the internet. But for a generation of people like my mom, it's one of the only unchanged traditions. Beginning from the 1980s they have been wearing sunglasses and bringing camera whose value is disproportionate to their income level. I discovered that there were bubbles on the surface of the coconut juice. And when they randomly explode, a concave, dimly white shape is left on the spot. This must involve some physical phenomena unknown to me, and to the peripheral of my view, some microorganisms might have died. They die because I need to drink the coconut juice, and I might die because of the same reason. To some greatest extent, like the picturesque one portrayed in Three Body, the entire earth might perish because a more advanced being liked to drink some coconut juice. I also have large bottles of chili powder and ground pepper powder on the desk. The white and the grey look of them makes it exorbitantly hard for me to relate to the time when they're still in the farm. Someone must have touched it to produce. A bee or a female farmer. Both of them might be attractive to males, both of them might not. Yet although who knows, neither of them were thinking that the entire life and the biggest defining characters were a mere difference of which sperm had run faster.
I always lack the courage to abuse anything no matter how fond of it I am. Out of all the food, instant noodles from Master Kong might be my favorite. Not only because among those I normally eat, the instant noodle is the most delicious, but that it represents my lifestyle that has originated from the era of my long past grandfather. Who cooked instant noodles for me, and educated that these noodles are without nutritious value, and quickly picked up a small piece of vegetable from the soup, telling me it's delicious. It was the backyard of my grandmother's. I still go there occasionally, and the place hasn't changed much at all. The cement of the yard even had an undertone of yellow in it. Because it's been toasted and shined and looked at for so many years. I would step on the spot where my grandfather and I were sitting and pretend as if I am still the same person. By then I would never imagine that I will be applying for a university abroad, and get rejected and accepted by schools. Because the utmost grandeur of the architecture for me was the newly innovated building of the community primary school.
My father no longer works at Nanjing, and my mom has had and has had not a boyfriend who is diabetic and obsessed with milk tea and toasted chicken wings. And ever since my first piece of electronic device - the GBA SP, I've had one Sony Ericsson, one Nintendo NDS, one PSP, one Sony Xperia S, one PSV, one iPod touch 4, one Sony Xperia Z1, and an iPhone 5s. If all of these has happened as fast as it happened in my mind, I may wow at it. But it's not. Time has defrayed the extreme happiness I thought would never end over and over again. And I fancy when I realize I'm getting old and feeling it's impossible and possible and incoming and denying it, I will at one day acknowledge, with or without cryonics. However I'm not always sentimental, most of the time I just sit there grinning that the time has passed and groaning that it hasn't. Because I have German student visa, Deutsch Bank account, air plane ticket to do. And that's all excitement; and that's all nothing when it's done.
I read, on the internet, a lot more than one articles whose main idea is to declare literature and art waste of time, supreme, useless, failing. And I consent to those ideas every time I was reading a respective article. The sharpness of opinions is always glaring, and always dull and tedious and pretentious when I look at it 3 days later. Like the overwhelming surprise that the bed sheet was changed and the overwhelming disappointed that the same bed sheet wasn't.
I imagine, intermittently, intuitively what if I'd been wealthy, or even poorer, or ugly or handsome, shielded from the regret stemming from every different character, every different state of mind, every different present, neither the past nor the future, but present. The moment I dropped my clothes to the floor is as valuable as the moment I made the decision to study abroad and get rejected by 20 universities. But it just can't. Astoundingly hypocritical my denial might seem, one doesn't notice or notices it but nothing is changed, until a war broke out or extraterrestrials attacked the earth.
"I'm fucking hungry." "Shit, I shall never eat again." "I'm fucking hungry." "Shit, I shall never eat again." "I'm fucking hungry." "Shit, I shall never eat again." "Shit…"
