In dream I'm asked to reinstall 3 operating systems in a day, and I promised that I'll be doing that in the afternoon next day, and I slept over; In reality I'm asked to reinstall none, and I just wake up late. In dream I can talk with beautiful girls in a mannered, tedious way; in reality I don't talk to girls. What I see in dream as liberating seemed less so in reality, what I deem constraining in reality seemed less so in dream. My heart is pumping biologically - people don't usually pay attention to their heart at such a high frequency - they simply think of themselves as unbreakable - and indeed they seem so. And I, always inundated by the prospect of having a cardiac arrest or something minor and more sudden, do not consider myself unbreakable, and indeed, do not seem so. God does not exist at all or exists, just feels too stupid to mind human's business, and humanity, while probable, is just a more advanced variation of the traits of all other animals; and law, is just a tool to ensure human not to interfere with one another and hardly provides an answer to what is true and what is meaningful. All those things I consider myself scientifically believe in either do not exist, or are useless, and my faith, simply like the faith of the mosquito, convinced of itself that it's not going to be killed by me, and then being killed by me, is a slightly more advanced variation of futility and aimlessness.
But I'm still going to sleep, still playing Battlefield 4 tomorrow morning, still actively avoiding talking about the possibility of dying in sleep, and still going to sleep tomorrow - there might be other activities like checking the emails, eating, and defecating entwined in, but overall a replicate of my past with more inconspicuously modified replicates in the future. Time makes the replicate completely different from the original, and I, stuck chronically by the urge to decide between the two egos, gradually masturbate and stop masturbate and unwilling to walk and unable to walk and die. Yeah, Battlefield 4, yeah, foods and shits, yeah money with which I bought and will buy things that at first interest me and cease to once I possessed them, fuck it!
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Yesterday was the second time I failed to say goodbye to my father - it seems that as the date of departure is approaching, his will of manipulate my deed has so increased exponentially - he had acted otherwise for the past 2 decades. I have finally reached the conclusion that human attachment is sometimes unseverable, it might evolve into the scenes depicted in those semi-literary, semi-pretentious movies whose intention is to make people cry, and those of a bogus, self-deemed ultimate understanding of the human life's worth - oh, for all the years spent seeking for happiness, for all the money I use to entertain myself, the true answer has always lied beside me - then there will be elaboration on essentially tedious things like a book, or a no-longer-beautiful or was-never-beautiful wife. This sort of plots have always nauseated me, like those old ladies shaking their butts convinced that they represent how life is supposed to be, and irritate everyone in the surroundings with a rare and bizarre common sense.
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In the immediate aftermath of my most recent masturbation, I thought that I should write something. And during, I was watching the quivering legs of the female and her fauvist moan - with all her sensory nerves excited I secretly asked myself, oh this is not human, this is not. While I have, for quite a few months now detested the idea of having to need another body to help relieve some part of me, I haven't yet corporeally done that. This inability represents merely a tiny portion of what I consider the grand helplessness of a human soul - for being existent at first and then die, leaving behind an ongoing online game profile, and then never getting the chance of switching to a new one - this is disheartening.
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I always loathe the idea of playing the multiplayer part of a game. Sometimes it's because I don't want to get involved with people, and the hideous sense of being killed while reluctant, but more it's because I don't have the confidence in excelling in it, I might get bullied, mentally raped, in a less-than-serious but nevertheless real sense. And when I do, I use cheat softwares like Hags Club and Aim Junkies and Sycore - for one online game in which I didn't use any digital support is the Alliance of Valiant Arms, in which I carefully, with a sniper rifle at the very depth of the base, reached a kill/death ratio of more than 6 - I was accused of using hacks. There's no difference between my skill and how good I seem to be after using a cheating software, and the later give me much more leisure and achievement than the former, why wouldn't I bother use it? Like the Canadian friend I made who played flag-running, non-killing server for straight 20 hours and had avatar that contains the words "YOU THINK I GIVE A FUCK", all the game, all the impulse of playing a game, originate from vanity, however laughably unreal, time-wasting, egocentric it is. A millionaire or any successful businessperson won't devote their time in tedious things like this, they would rather wearing 5 bucks T-shirt, using Nokia dumb phone and investing some big money in the field that doesn't actually interest them. I have failed to notice the difference no matter how the society tells me otherwise. I would be happy to consider moving to Canada and be a permanent resident there, but the Canadian guy I know play the same game as I do, for conspicuously longer, he's more bored than I am. I can always have some writing on the blog which I changed the address from billie.co to blog.billie.co to make space for my newly established email address mail@billie.co, just so other people won't be able to navigate to my blog that easy, on the other hand, I enjoyed sharing some of those clips I've written and felt proud of. Most of the people don't have the privilege of doing so - they have the habitual lifestyle of doing regular things and being inculcated by television at a fixed time, and although they are happy, they are happy indeed. There will be some more acrimonious comment on the last sentence like they're not intelligent, they're walking animals rather than living human, but there's nothing superior to be a living human than be a walking animal - the animals live more simplistically, therefore they're living in a state in which the conditions are more in accordance with their body, whereas the living human, while contemplating themselves and their perceptions in a more complex way, is no more than someone on underwear in downtown New Delhi who dances an Indian dance before opening the air conditioner with the remote in hand - that's not the beauty of it, it's physical redundancy. But what's not redundancy?
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Ever since the construction in front of the apartment building gradually went into a crude framework of the shopping mall vaguely visible, covered by steel pipes and green etamine to block the seeking sight from me, and to block the eagerness of those workers to be immersed and denigrated in the city, I became unable to see the street with 2 lines of loosely lit lights at night and the furniture store whose sign reads Home-like in Chinese I used to take as an eyesight test. I told my visiting father that the construction of the building, however homogeneous among the other tens of thousands of constructions in China, represents my strange and vast transformation from the high school boy who I deemed immature, to the worn-out old-time then-cynic conservative I look like right now - it witnessed everything, from my yell of desperation when I was preparing to go out of the country, to the gaze of excitement I so rarely exert on the exam result day, to the disappointment and contrite when I was universally rejected. However, the building keeps coming into being, and I keep going forward for every second of time, always suspicious if the things will turn out right, and always proven superfluous of my suspicion.
After watching the World Cup final this morning, I woke up seeing invitations from a bunch of middle school classmates whose name I have almost forgotten, for a revisit party. I don't usually go to any party, because party feels like to me, a coup of conspirators who are not lured by conspiracy but are simply bound by the immense power of their ideology. And should I enter, I enter like a bashful peasant without the sense of decency and sociability - hey guys, nice to see you - and then play with the cellphone and look out of the window as if something else is troubling me.
-
Yesterday was the second time I failed to say goodbye to my father - it seems that as the date of departure is approaching, his will of manipulate my deed has so increased exponentially - he had acted otherwise for the past 2 decades. I have finally reached the conclusion that human attachment is sometimes unseverable, it might evolve into the scenes depicted in those semi-literary, semi-pretentious movies whose intention is to make people cry, and those of a bogus, self-deemed ultimate understanding of the human life's worth - oh, for all the years spent seeking for happiness, for all the money I use to entertain myself, the true answer has always lied beside me - then there will be elaboration on essentially tedious things like a book, or a no-longer-beautiful or was-never-beautiful wife. This sort of plots have always nauseated me, like those old ladies shaking their butts convinced that they represent how life is supposed to be, and irritate everyone in the surroundings with a rare and bizarre common sense.
-
In the immediate aftermath of my most recent masturbation, I thought that I should write something. And during, I was watching the quivering legs of the female and her fauvist moan - with all her sensory nerves excited I secretly asked myself, oh this is not human, this is not. While I have, for quite a few months now detested the idea of having to need another body to help relieve some part of me, I haven't yet corporeally done that. This inability represents merely a tiny portion of what I consider the grand helplessness of a human soul - for being existent at first and then die, leaving behind an ongoing online game profile, and then never getting the chance of switching to a new one - this is disheartening.
-
I always loathe the idea of playing the multiplayer part of a game. Sometimes it's because I don't want to get involved with people, and the hideous sense of being killed while reluctant, but more it's because I don't have the confidence in excelling in it, I might get bullied, mentally raped, in a less-than-serious but nevertheless real sense. And when I do, I use cheat softwares like Hags Club and Aim Junkies and Sycore - for one online game in which I didn't use any digital support is the Alliance of Valiant Arms, in which I carefully, with a sniper rifle at the very depth of the base, reached a kill/death ratio of more than 6 - I was accused of using hacks. There's no difference between my skill and how good I seem to be after using a cheating software, and the later give me much more leisure and achievement than the former, why wouldn't I bother use it? Like the Canadian friend I made who played flag-running, non-killing server for straight 20 hours and had avatar that contains the words "YOU THINK I GIVE A FUCK", all the game, all the impulse of playing a game, originate from vanity, however laughably unreal, time-wasting, egocentric it is. A millionaire or any successful businessperson won't devote their time in tedious things like this, they would rather wearing 5 bucks T-shirt, using Nokia dumb phone and investing some big money in the field that doesn't actually interest them. I have failed to notice the difference no matter how the society tells me otherwise. I would be happy to consider moving to Canada and be a permanent resident there, but the Canadian guy I know play the same game as I do, for conspicuously longer, he's more bored than I am. I can always have some writing on the blog which I changed the address from billie.co to blog.billie.co to make space for my newly established email address mail@billie.co, just so other people won't be able to navigate to my blog that easy, on the other hand, I enjoyed sharing some of those clips I've written and felt proud of. Most of the people don't have the privilege of doing so - they have the habitual lifestyle of doing regular things and being inculcated by television at a fixed time, and although they are happy, they are happy indeed. There will be some more acrimonious comment on the last sentence like they're not intelligent, they're walking animals rather than living human, but there's nothing superior to be a living human than be a walking animal - the animals live more simplistically, therefore they're living in a state in which the conditions are more in accordance with their body, whereas the living human, while contemplating themselves and their perceptions in a more complex way, is no more than someone on underwear in downtown New Delhi who dances an Indian dance before opening the air conditioner with the remote in hand - that's not the beauty of it, it's physical redundancy. But what's not redundancy?
-
Ever since the construction in front of the apartment building gradually went into a crude framework of the shopping mall vaguely visible, covered by steel pipes and green etamine to block the seeking sight from me, and to block the eagerness of those workers to be immersed and denigrated in the city, I became unable to see the street with 2 lines of loosely lit lights at night and the furniture store whose sign reads Home-like in Chinese I used to take as an eyesight test. I told my visiting father that the construction of the building, however homogeneous among the other tens of thousands of constructions in China, represents my strange and vast transformation from the high school boy who I deemed immature, to the worn-out old-time then-cynic conservative I look like right now - it witnessed everything, from my yell of desperation when I was preparing to go out of the country, to the gaze of excitement I so rarely exert on the exam result day, to the disappointment and contrite when I was universally rejected. However, the building keeps coming into being, and I keep going forward for every second of time, always suspicious if the things will turn out right, and always proven superfluous of my suspicion.
After watching the World Cup final this morning, I woke up seeing invitations from a bunch of middle school classmates whose name I have almost forgotten, for a revisit party. I don't usually go to any party, because party feels like to me, a coup of conspirators who are not lured by conspiracy but are simply bound by the immense power of their ideology. And should I enter, I enter like a bashful peasant without the sense of decency and sociability - hey guys, nice to see you - and then play with the cellphone and look out of the window as if something else is troubling me.
