In the window of my invariable prison, tissues tinted with remnants of processed food, empty can and the half empty glass which I use to exert an artificially bourgeois manner, were lined up in a haphazard, ridiculous way that reminds me of a stereo with twisted cables left open and playing tones of a brown and white noise. The bite at my right buttocks still hurt whenever I sit unattendingly. And I scratch it with fingers through the ever so tight American jeans.
Seeing to me is always complex. What I see, without exceptions, presents a protracted, static beauty which the action or even the will to take a photograph would demur. The chair and the ceramic heater beneath it pose an angle that's neither direct nor slated. The cord and the bowl and the lamp look not only external and chronical, but also posthumous. The semi basket attached to the wall with duck tapes contrast greatly with the round hole from a failed attempt embodied perfectly my willingness to finish, and the uselessness of my willing. I'll never and was never to be admitted into anything. Because entry means another set of intrusions, and the inevitable enjoyment of those intrusions means an eternal exit with narrowed hope to redo or to free oneself from the toxins of expectations. Life is the search for the impossible via the useless. A noble soul seeking to explore every possibility, an equally noble soul sneering in the nullification of his outcome. Good thing is always expensive, fast internet connection, clean atmosphere, better piece of cloth to cover the genitals, and the privilege to dream wholeheartedly. By doing what I renounce, I exile myself. By keeping being occupied with objective facts, I rip out my insides to be filled with replicable externals. I fear, I'm living in an undisclosed mistake, and have misgivings about the potential of having done otherwise. When I cherish at the unique sweetness of being singular, I'm haunted by an inability to live life realistically. When I marvel at the grandeur of the world, seen or unseen, I'm caught in a cold of being forever feeble. And I often exist between the two, neither aspiring nor indulgent, but as the middle ground of a pair of confused sights - vaguely discoverable when the eyeballs are misplaced.
I want to live endlessly, meaningless and incessant throughout the fragments. To impress no one as well as to disgust no one, but just to hear the patter of rain, and the ray of sun, to exist mechanically, saddled with emptiness in the immensity of reverberations. The on again off again distaste for the pillow and the necessity of recharging the phone and eating and climbing up-and-downstairs constitute the purposeless teleology of my ever tentative life. I have books to read, that's consolatory. I have life to carry on, that's reassuring. I want to have both with sincerity, and that's impossible. The joyful is always mutually irreducible. Therefore whatever pleasure I'm having is incomplete and parochial. The off-putting is always prevalent. Therefore whatever hatred I possess is pedestrian and repetitive. I savor my desire with refusal, and I loathe my enemy by being cordial.
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Rarely do I feel according to my action, or act according to my feeling, just like Wuxi doesn't rain a lot. But when it rains, the drizzle is at its entirety. Now long after the midnight, I sit disgracefully with my legs crossed on a wooden chair from the dining room, and the white tissue I didn't care about hours ago still fails to be disposed. It lies just as disgracefully as I am, like the board lies in the garage of a Japanese punk song, feeling perfectly good while maintaining a sense of disorientation. Perhaps I need some endorphin inhibitor, or injection. I'm simultaneously interested and irked by the labyrinth of female structure. Companionship and the need to establish family serve me no convenience other than medical emergency, which can be safely substituted by a button and an automatic defibrillator.
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Xu is coming back tomorrow from New Zealand. I promised him that once I started a company, I will invite him to work with me. And he said in the same way. I wanted to have a conversation with him online, but feel too timid to do that. As if being abroad can burnish a man with a particular flair of estrangement. The adaptation to another culture, the acceptance of another form, are perilous for they transformed people, in an unknown direction. But what do I say but complaints and narcissism; what do I heave but powerlessness and frustration. I write, talk, repeatedly and without grace. I begrudge myself, which in turn begrudges another.
In the distance my nephew just cried and perturbed a silent modernity in the room with smell of a brand new computer and the hair dried after using an overly aromatized shampoo. The fingers of my brother were beneath the pillow, the dull pressure exerted by the weight of his tiresome head delights them. My sister lied just beside him, fixing her eyes on the television just meters in the front. Their sexual organs are in such proximity and availability to each other that neither notices them. The baby turns right and left ceaselessly to find a spot in the silent universe to brace his maturing, uncomprehending soul. Oh, she got up, finding a pair of Hello Kitty slippers, and with the decisive cracking of the floor, she went to the bathroom for the 134323 times of her life and felt the exact elatedness she feels every time in the place to contemplate and become ignorant. My brother inadvertently notices the bed sheet which is used to cover the television screen when it is not used is tangled, and after a subliminally sarcastic change in the face, he keeps watching the TV. What is broadcast there he doesn't know, he doesn't care. There's something shown there, some images with all the movements and sounds. The world is normal to him, even unchanging. Until my sister retreated from the bathroom. And my grandmother, my former teachers, all those Schrodinger people in the boxed windows of a building, there are images and movements and sounds in front of each of them, they enjoy what they won't consider enjoyment when seen objectively, they weep what they won't admit tragedy should there be a message alert to disrupt them. The IBM people, extraterrestrial people, mouse, characters in a non-fiction, molecules in the middle of a dust heap, the crushed singularity that is black hole, quantum beings lurking mathematically, all move along the time, bizarrely convinced that they're fine.
I still put the lamp above my speakers, and bookshelf above a cluster of wood whose use I don't know. I sleep in only two directions and I'm a creature of tradition. I can tell the difference between a five yuan note and a ten yuan note within a micro second, and I'm sure as hell that anything that differ my DNA by 0.1% will not be able to do that. So what? It's such a vast quantity in this 0.1% that people still must be graded, selected, wed out. This is humanity.
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The more someone acquaints with me, the more my willingness to appear humorous dilutes. I prefer to be perceived as perfectly normal, motionless and without imagination, forgetful and rightly parsimonious. Beyond doubt, I have the intention to conceal my cynicism and the naïveté of taking fictional, idealized rules as creeds of life.
