4/27

Since I was told that going out and talking to people will make life feel interesting, I went to my grandma's today - nobody there expects me to go except my father. It was an involuntary decision. I didn't plan to go either. I grabbed the bus card and waited at the stop for a few minutes and actually saw the girl I used to see when I was in middle school. I hedged, failing to find anywhere applicable for my taste, and turned back towards my grandma's. My niece, likely 14 years old - she might have even got her period, learned to shun eye contacts from males and laughed without pulchritude. Her mom, on the rail to 40, began to notice the everlasting stain on her face. Beneath the exorbitantly pasty skin of her hands, there's a flowing helplessness of having to age, and having to fight against it. My new nephew whose name I was told and have then forgotten, cries and seldom laughs. He's the newborn but it seems he's been chronically troubled with pain so superficially fierce. My grandma, who stays by him tickling, wears a smile on her face as if the waving of a tiny arm is the most intriguing feat. She's witnessed so many things, so many years, so much anguish that she smiles; he's witnessed nothing, and he cries. Human is a species for mutual admiration, albeit begrudging and often hypocritical, the sense of longing for the unpossessed persists in a corner of soul.

A prolonged period of time was spent discussing about money. It's curious that those who are reluctant to purchase have the willpower to accumulate things only useful in purchase. There was a silent, politeness-rife war between my aunt and uncle. My sister just bought an electric bike, which looks the same to other 2 electric bikes parked in front of the apartment building. Happiness, once betrayed unintentionally, cannot be fake. And their elatedness of owning a new electric bike is genuine. Labor is exchanged for money, while money is exchanged for labor; and I observe it. Aunt complained how diluted relationships can turn into once money is made and success is achieved, and exemplified with the peculiar entanglement of such and such acquaintance, such and such neighbor. She spent a life's worth to buy an automobile, by doing which she thinks people will cease discriminating her; and my uncle rode to faraway place for a jar of seasoning at 200 bucks discount. I confided that wife is only useful in case of medical emergency. And polite people aren't necessarily friendly.

I was lying on the bed writing, and discovered it was too ghastly an environment, and shifted to the rest room. But when I put my arse on the sheet-covered ring of toilet, a distaste for my continuation in the dearth of inspiration and material arises. I always use the rest room as a place for thinking, and 80% of my English is fluented here. I must admit I'm a plain, thoughtless man - anything above it is an act of self-applauding.

I'm tired, and today is squandered. Nonetheless I've written something that exists.

-

I'm accustomed to it - accusing, behind the back or with a sarcastic undertone self-supposedly undetectable. My gibberish thought is sometimes too perplexing for me to comprehend, like when Fernando Pessoa wrote of dream - he didn't have it at all, he just yearned, pictured, and merged. As I skip the photograph of a ugly girl and secretly regret having seen it, I realize I'm the same with everyone else; as I'm compelled by a movie or a line to write something on the wall or as signature, I realize my taste is trivial and momentary; and as I hear and enjoy my own lies wholeheartedly, without even the slightest trace of pretense, I realize the person I deem myself is artificial. But it continues, all continues, like or not, choose or not, accept or not, succeed or not, restrained by my perennial perspective. And the city beyond my vision, nation beyond my hearing, world beyond my imagination, cosmos beyond my comprehension, do not exist.