Owing to an uninvited, effortless privilege of making money, my sense of economy has been greatly diminished. Just today I spent 399.99 USD to buy a copy of the Microsoft Office 2016 Professional, which, alternatively costs only 5 EUR on Taobao. And then there's now, at 3:24 AM in the morning, with an impending 8:15 AM International Economics presentation, I forsake sleep for writing.
It is not, however, that I haven't tried to fall asleep. I was keenly aware that although the Economics presentation has nothing concrete to offer to what I am doing, I should still perform well because my sub-par presence may actually deprecate the endeavor of other group members. Take Ping for example, his dedication to this simple little assignment is truly astonishing - I, for one, am not able to comprehend him, let alone to mimic. The reason that I failed to sleep, therefore is still some other annoyance. The pajama bottom is too loose, yet the shirt is a bit rigid - and I didn't take shower before going to bed, all of these compounded, coupled perhaps with some undying subconscious infatuation, make sleeping exceedingly hard, that the more I struggle in bed, the farther-off the objective of sleep seems.
Oh crap, these are just plain excuses, which especially smart people are adept at using to cover up their otherwise eye-catching flaw - I am, at the moment, among the less smart in this group of people with whom I associate. And it is either because the excuses I use aren't good enough or my flaw is overly blatant that I get to see through it.
Quite surprisingly at this time of the day people are baking pizza in the kitchen. The language they speak presumably comes from Southeast Asia - the sound is loud, and the syllables uncluttered and rapid - I feel proud for them, like I feel proud for the whistle Tian makes every time after I go to bed - they have fun in what they do, and are usually unaware of how they appeal to others.. But what is the appeal when one is fighting to sleep? Even the bed itself is an enemy, and it is outright impossible for the limb to find its place. Therefore, I have nothing to complain about.
On the previous installation of my computer, I had an additional clock showing the time in Shanghai, where my parents are. With this new build of operating system, I hardly feel the need to adjust the setting. Merely one year into leaving home and kicking off by myself, the word family has already turned into an unfamiliar concept. After all, who are they but a pair of humans? And in particular if they are those humans who seldom bear significance outside their own surroundings? Of course, they are clean and honest - they are staunch in believing in their own life; they have never committed a crime nor prevented one. But who has not? And so, intelligible is my choice of saving the energy of adding a clock of my parents' time zone for some thirty seconds of Facebook browsing and YouTube watching.
OK, alright. Husain is snoring behind me, and tosses around fairly frequently - his poor sleeping quality has a soothing effect on me. I am getting sleepy as well. Less than four hours until the presentation, my laptop, the moonish spray bottles and a tissue roll are the only bright objects in this room. I take a sight of what I have written, a pageful! A pageful of words that are utterly unreasonable! To write has become a different form of emptiness - to induce sleep, to fill up these littery moments, and to pitprop life! And finally I am sleepy! Thank God!
Friday, October 30
Wednesday, October 14
10/15
Organizational Narrative Project
Protagonist: He, co-founder at Bund Education Co., Ltd.
[Introduction]
Caved in the weird, inveterate smog of Shanghai, he drifts slowly along the asphalt road - almost three years ago the night it had all begun he used to walk like this - only then it was high school, and he was a waiter. O' those dreadful times have long passed. He's settling down, though temporarily, almost tentatively - having served in New Oriental as a teaching assistant for nearly one year it was high time to start out on his own - co-founder, as he writes on his CV for whatever murky applications in the future. He's an adult now. Matter of fact he has been an adult for one year! But what sense to make with it? The four youthful souls in this upscale office building near the Bund of Bund Education Co., Ltd., stuck together, balled-up to keep the money rolling in - plenty of it. But that's one of the few things he deploys to delight himself. What else? Parents in the country? Dull and nearly repetitive. Spouse? So far, only a girlfriend below the planet beneath. Until he seems to find another, not dream, but fantasy experimented, FUSE.
[First Report]
Having no intention for an actual venture at first, he followed headlong into a world which is alien to him and which, unexpectedly he finds agreeable, for it imbues him with a sense of being alive that he had aspired but never truly attained. It is so soothing, so genuine, like how the bird must have felt when perching on a spring's tree. Though for him, for anyone with an inkling of rationality, the tree is but in its crudest, tattiest form, blood-fed with the money that was once part of his tuition fees next year, an apartment that is, in an old, French-style office building thirty-second of walk away from the Bund - he goes there all the time, usually after dinner. In the beginning the grand Shanghai skyline dazzled him. Mesmerized, he would rest his shoulder and arms on the handrail by the river and take gazillions of pictures to flaunt. But before long it becomes norm. He even feels a connection, however diluted, between the shallow pumping heart of his and the much more tangible ambition of this entire nation on the other side. He neither touches nor feels it. But he knows it's there. And it pleases him. He feels light-hearted all the time - those penniless hipsters, complaining about food and courting girls, carefree as they appear to be, they ain't even convinced of themselves, he thinks, and he's at least got something to grasp, and cheers to that.
Occasionally he would niggle over some petty issues with his boss, who he finds quirky. The boss is an unstable man, and earthquakes all the time. He can be quizzical and clingy on this second and disinterested and aloof the very next. The only thing constant about the boss is an unwavering greediness - "300 yuan per hour? That's too little, make it 500 yuan. For God's sake I would make it 1000 as long as these rich bastards are foolish enough to accept it." And it unsettles him, he doesn't want to come off as a vampire. But he faces no choice but to accommodate the boss, after all the boss is the boss, and boss makes right decisions.
It's a small company still. He has to take on multiple roles, mostly as marketer and teacher, but routinely as garbage collector and dishwasher as well. And the crucial part is the former. He needs to find students, and to teach them, together with his boss in a cohesive way. It is easier for him to work with the boss and the other two paperwork dudes. Workload is divided and he gets to work on what he does the best; during the downturn he can also assure himself that the others are suffering with him. But it is not without trouble, in fact sometimes huge pain in the ass, to have to deal with his boss, to always find a middle way, and to consolidate the schedule when the boss is off 2000 kilometers again for his girlfriend. Nonetheless, at a day's end, he's content.
[Second Report]
Sometimes he wonders, in this shabby place made of bits and parts glued together under the name of a single man, a tender body veiled often by beach pants and slippers, what propels this truckload of otherwise commonplace men to move forward? There must be something, something special about that man! His imprudence in making a decision and his firmness in fulfilling it! The way he leads! He neither subordinates nor negotiates. He merely talks, using his rationality to sell and to convince almost wholeheartedly the minds of skeptics like him. His annoyances are consistent but only mild, his derangement is severe but never consequential. He readily shatters, rives, and tosses what he and the rest of the comrades take as believes, faiths, and principles without it let known, and miraculously squeezes out new rules, new forms and new creeds under which they smilingly bask. Towards the end, therefore, he gives up fighting; he even gives up preserving what is left of him; he flows willingly and inexorably along.
All of these though, has an underlying premise - he will not bet a dime on his boss if one day the boss fails to turn that dime into more, and the other guys share a similar view - that to be revealingly frank, the only things that matter are the dimes - there simply is no other reason, be it to compete, to control, to like or to emphasize, for nobody, the boss himself included, feels a sense of mission in the tasks being carried out. After all, he agrees, this industry exists only in the crevice, of aspirant, wealthy parents' uncontrollable urge to send their sons and daughters to schools that are not necessarily excellent, but nevertheless elite. It is under this integrated culture of essential indifference that they preserve themselves.
And it never occurred to him that he would need to find another person to help. It was only after that the amount of work borders on the unmanageable that he, casual and nonchalant, reached out to various universities for manpower. He recalls most vividly, when he sifted through so many applications of an unvarying butt-shaking eagerness, the despicable ease with which he picks and decides - these people, who spent years and years in school, in turn, get to work for him and his boss - it all seems ludicrously surreal.
Yet it isn't that he intends to mistreat these young people. Once they are onboard they instantly become like him - to take orders from the boss, to begin to function, and to get paid according to the hours they work. There are only four people, and there isn't much to be said. It is even better, sometimes, for the boss to be the one to make the cuts - it is infinitely easier to obey than to confront over the decisions which nobody feels sure about. Hence, perfect! Sehr perfect! To be able to work like this he thinks, with his job as an extension of life rather than as a part of it.
P: Five reports were originally intended for the Organizational Narrative Project. However, the last three reports have been canceled due to "academic inaptness". And the boss in the reports was me.
-
Blessing gravely thrice the sofa, I wandered about and placed my buttocks on the bar stool. Quite sensibly the feet went on the table beside the fridge that never seemed full - the red Coca-Cola paint on the edge was even a bit cocked up. But it was no matter. I came only to shack up for a moment, and then I would have to leave as well.
After these mystically few months I finally got to peek out, from this giant array of buildings and the fences around them. Yet I did not feel a sense of liberation - the momentum of having been an inmate makes me almost suspicious of the world outside - back in my constrained and thus leisurely days I simply whammed and whistled on the mattress, seeking not to amplify but rather, to allay - the life in flesh and Eden was ever so anciently peaceful, like a rhyme hummed by the oldest words, that it had become vital for me to make it appear less so.
Actually there wasn’t anything particular about the room I was in - it was one of those places patronized only by people in need. I had watched movie while lying on the couch at the rightmost corner of the room. Then Alin was often around and seemed fairly energized by a youthful upkeep which he didn't manage to maintain, and Husain still unquestioning and glad - since, though not entirely certain, after the movie he could always come down one stair with me and enter the room opposite of mine that was, after all, legitimately his.
And all of sudden I felt concerned, almost apprehended - like how watchfully I would listen to a piece of music as the melody tapered - so scraggy was the sound that it could fall and break. Though why did it matter if after several sonatas either I got bored by its repetition or it eventually came to an end not fully expressed but nonetheless conclusive I didn't know. Just that, while I was thinking about it, I intuitively pressed every button on my touchscreen keyboard stronger, so the characters manufactured seemed more convincing:
"Do remember to take care; always ask for a blanket before the cabin gets cold."
I viewed these letters individually as they piecemeal formed, making sure that the font was well-spoken and that I did use the correct punctuation. I always had a standpoint that by having a flawless style in one's writing, things will somehow become smoother - such that I mawkishly persevered in the road I had chosen to destine.
It was, if I had remembered correctly, around noon. I was sleep-deprived and unusually thrilled - the familiarity of it all, the clean awareness of where exactly I was, the conviction that when strolling here I was dispensed with the need to defend, the cheer and terror I keepsake for its possible loss, felt startlingly alien. I was like an upcoming whoremaster who for some unkempt reason became attached to the brothel he never felt the need to visit, let alone to stay, and of which, he had gradually realized and regretted.
Fine. Anyways, I was about to finish up. I had already bought the ticket, folded my outfit into the suitcase, and sprayed deodorant. I could've waited a bit longer but there was no need - the blazing sun was high in the sky; the fast food restaurant was there one last time for a box of beef rice with noodles - a little reluctance was normal and appreciated.
So I packed up, chewed the last wad of Dextro from the servery, wiped my hand, wreathed a smile, and turned away.
-
Sometimes being a human means to deceive oneself, especially for those who haven't had the privilege to lead a life that isn't entirely fulfilling. I, however, am among those people who are supposed to cheat and forget yet who couldn't take the courage to really do so. I reason, while unfortunate and vulgar, my life isn't without commendable moments to remember, and profound changes to rethink, and therefore, it is not proper to discard all of them indiscriminately, though it might be quite easy and reassuring.
Protagonist: He, co-founder at Bund Education Co., Ltd.
[Introduction]
Caved in the weird, inveterate smog of Shanghai, he drifts slowly along the asphalt road - almost three years ago the night it had all begun he used to walk like this - only then it was high school, and he was a waiter. O' those dreadful times have long passed. He's settling down, though temporarily, almost tentatively - having served in New Oriental as a teaching assistant for nearly one year it was high time to start out on his own - co-founder, as he writes on his CV for whatever murky applications in the future. He's an adult now. Matter of fact he has been an adult for one year! But what sense to make with it? The four youthful souls in this upscale office building near the Bund of Bund Education Co., Ltd., stuck together, balled-up to keep the money rolling in - plenty of it. But that's one of the few things he deploys to delight himself. What else? Parents in the country? Dull and nearly repetitive. Spouse? So far, only a girlfriend below the planet beneath. Until he seems to find another, not dream, but fantasy experimented, FUSE.
[First Report]
Having no intention for an actual venture at first, he followed headlong into a world which is alien to him and which, unexpectedly he finds agreeable, for it imbues him with a sense of being alive that he had aspired but never truly attained. It is so soothing, so genuine, like how the bird must have felt when perching on a spring's tree. Though for him, for anyone with an inkling of rationality, the tree is but in its crudest, tattiest form, blood-fed with the money that was once part of his tuition fees next year, an apartment that is, in an old, French-style office building thirty-second of walk away from the Bund - he goes there all the time, usually after dinner. In the beginning the grand Shanghai skyline dazzled him. Mesmerized, he would rest his shoulder and arms on the handrail by the river and take gazillions of pictures to flaunt. But before long it becomes norm. He even feels a connection, however diluted, between the shallow pumping heart of his and the much more tangible ambition of this entire nation on the other side. He neither touches nor feels it. But he knows it's there. And it pleases him. He feels light-hearted all the time - those penniless hipsters, complaining about food and courting girls, carefree as they appear to be, they ain't even convinced of themselves, he thinks, and he's at least got something to grasp, and cheers to that.
Occasionally he would niggle over some petty issues with his boss, who he finds quirky. The boss is an unstable man, and earthquakes all the time. He can be quizzical and clingy on this second and disinterested and aloof the very next. The only thing constant about the boss is an unwavering greediness - "300 yuan per hour? That's too little, make it 500 yuan. For God's sake I would make it 1000 as long as these rich bastards are foolish enough to accept it." And it unsettles him, he doesn't want to come off as a vampire. But he faces no choice but to accommodate the boss, after all the boss is the boss, and boss makes right decisions.
It's a small company still. He has to take on multiple roles, mostly as marketer and teacher, but routinely as garbage collector and dishwasher as well. And the crucial part is the former. He needs to find students, and to teach them, together with his boss in a cohesive way. It is easier for him to work with the boss and the other two paperwork dudes. Workload is divided and he gets to work on what he does the best; during the downturn he can also assure himself that the others are suffering with him. But it is not without trouble, in fact sometimes huge pain in the ass, to have to deal with his boss, to always find a middle way, and to consolidate the schedule when the boss is off 2000 kilometers again for his girlfriend. Nonetheless, at a day's end, he's content.
[Second Report]
Sometimes he wonders, in this shabby place made of bits and parts glued together under the name of a single man, a tender body veiled often by beach pants and slippers, what propels this truckload of otherwise commonplace men to move forward? There must be something, something special about that man! His imprudence in making a decision and his firmness in fulfilling it! The way he leads! He neither subordinates nor negotiates. He merely talks, using his rationality to sell and to convince almost wholeheartedly the minds of skeptics like him. His annoyances are consistent but only mild, his derangement is severe but never consequential. He readily shatters, rives, and tosses what he and the rest of the comrades take as believes, faiths, and principles without it let known, and miraculously squeezes out new rules, new forms and new creeds under which they smilingly bask. Towards the end, therefore, he gives up fighting; he even gives up preserving what is left of him; he flows willingly and inexorably along.
All of these though, has an underlying premise - he will not bet a dime on his boss if one day the boss fails to turn that dime into more, and the other guys share a similar view - that to be revealingly frank, the only things that matter are the dimes - there simply is no other reason, be it to compete, to control, to like or to emphasize, for nobody, the boss himself included, feels a sense of mission in the tasks being carried out. After all, he agrees, this industry exists only in the crevice, of aspirant, wealthy parents' uncontrollable urge to send their sons and daughters to schools that are not necessarily excellent, but nevertheless elite. It is under this integrated culture of essential indifference that they preserve themselves.
And it never occurred to him that he would need to find another person to help. It was only after that the amount of work borders on the unmanageable that he, casual and nonchalant, reached out to various universities for manpower. He recalls most vividly, when he sifted through so many applications of an unvarying butt-shaking eagerness, the despicable ease with which he picks and decides - these people, who spent years and years in school, in turn, get to work for him and his boss - it all seems ludicrously surreal.
Yet it isn't that he intends to mistreat these young people. Once they are onboard they instantly become like him - to take orders from the boss, to begin to function, and to get paid according to the hours they work. There are only four people, and there isn't much to be said. It is even better, sometimes, for the boss to be the one to make the cuts - it is infinitely easier to obey than to confront over the decisions which nobody feels sure about. Hence, perfect! Sehr perfect! To be able to work like this he thinks, with his job as an extension of life rather than as a part of it.
P: Five reports were originally intended for the Organizational Narrative Project. However, the last three reports have been canceled due to "academic inaptness". And the boss in the reports was me.
-
Blessing gravely thrice the sofa, I wandered about and placed my buttocks on the bar stool. Quite sensibly the feet went on the table beside the fridge that never seemed full - the red Coca-Cola paint on the edge was even a bit cocked up. But it was no matter. I came only to shack up for a moment, and then I would have to leave as well.
After these mystically few months I finally got to peek out, from this giant array of buildings and the fences around them. Yet I did not feel a sense of liberation - the momentum of having been an inmate makes me almost suspicious of the world outside - back in my constrained and thus leisurely days I simply whammed and whistled on the mattress, seeking not to amplify but rather, to allay - the life in flesh and Eden was ever so anciently peaceful, like a rhyme hummed by the oldest words, that it had become vital for me to make it appear less so.
Actually there wasn’t anything particular about the room I was in - it was one of those places patronized only by people in need. I had watched movie while lying on the couch at the rightmost corner of the room. Then Alin was often around and seemed fairly energized by a youthful upkeep which he didn't manage to maintain, and Husain still unquestioning and glad - since, though not entirely certain, after the movie he could always come down one stair with me and enter the room opposite of mine that was, after all, legitimately his.
And all of sudden I felt concerned, almost apprehended - like how watchfully I would listen to a piece of music as the melody tapered - so scraggy was the sound that it could fall and break. Though why did it matter if after several sonatas either I got bored by its repetition or it eventually came to an end not fully expressed but nonetheless conclusive I didn't know. Just that, while I was thinking about it, I intuitively pressed every button on my touchscreen keyboard stronger, so the characters manufactured seemed more convincing:
"Do remember to take care; always ask for a blanket before the cabin gets cold."
I viewed these letters individually as they piecemeal formed, making sure that the font was well-spoken and that I did use the correct punctuation. I always had a standpoint that by having a flawless style in one's writing, things will somehow become smoother - such that I mawkishly persevered in the road I had chosen to destine.
It was, if I had remembered correctly, around noon. I was sleep-deprived and unusually thrilled - the familiarity of it all, the clean awareness of where exactly I was, the conviction that when strolling here I was dispensed with the need to defend, the cheer and terror I keepsake for its possible loss, felt startlingly alien. I was like an upcoming whoremaster who for some unkempt reason became attached to the brothel he never felt the need to visit, let alone to stay, and of which, he had gradually realized and regretted.
Fine. Anyways, I was about to finish up. I had already bought the ticket, folded my outfit into the suitcase, and sprayed deodorant. I could've waited a bit longer but there was no need - the blazing sun was high in the sky; the fast food restaurant was there one last time for a box of beef rice with noodles - a little reluctance was normal and appreciated.
So I packed up, chewed the last wad of Dextro from the servery, wiped my hand, wreathed a smile, and turned away.
-
Sometimes being a human means to deceive oneself, especially for those who haven't had the privilege to lead a life that isn't entirely fulfilling. I, however, am among those people who are supposed to cheat and forget yet who couldn't take the courage to really do so. I reason, while unfortunate and vulgar, my life isn't without commendable moments to remember, and profound changes to rethink, and therefore, it is not proper to discard all of them indiscriminately, though it might be quite easy and reassuring.
Wednesday, September 30
9/30
My index fingers are like a pair of pincers caught on the edges of my phone. Sometimes one of them bends a little bit, adjusting the angle of the screen in a blunt white. My eyes, fixated by the words shown and deleted there, move as my thumbs type on a projected keyboard. Everything that is not the screen is dark and peripheral, even my fingers and hands appear only as silhouettes. On the thousandth night nothing still interests me on the screen. There are just a bunch of letters on a yellowish background and chronically cute lumps of colors. At 12:00 AM instead of sleeping I am looking at my phone and my tireless obsession with it. This is the sixth iPhone 6 Plus for me and the tenth phone in general, yet the urgency to immerse is so painstakingly fresh - what clever cursors, images and gestures, and the way they are subordinated - a feeling nowhere else to be felt - no more card drawings and running-out-of-tissue-in-a-public-toilet-in-the-middle-of-the-night moments, it ensures to kindly remind you of low battery and that the apps will function optimally. 100% satisfaction guaranteed with refund, no one says no to anyone anymore.
The mattress cover was a bit wet; the dryer downstairs mustn't have handled it well. I wrap my legs with a corner of the quill, dried, and continue to look at my phone - Google Plus, hmm, too beautiful; LinkedIn, just Facebook in suit; Reddit, too niddering in taste; WeChat and Quora and Sleep Cycle Alarm Clock, all of them are confined in tiny, rounded squares for my ultimate pick. And I, pampered by their butt-shaking eagerness, suddenly decide all of them disgusting and instead open the Notes app to jot down a few thoughts, non-thoughts to be precise, words and lines to make up space rather than content and which I quickly delete.
Two days after Mid-Autumn Festival the kitchen behind the wall to the right of me still lingers the buzzing noises and the bursting laughters of a group of my compatriots that I unexpectedly come to despise. Their leftover dishes in the sink contrast ever greatly with their domineering heads flinched behind pairs of glasses, coddled in a persistently mild smile - concubines made of palace. But I ain't got anything to do with them anymore. Perhaps in them there was certain sensitivity that I failed to foresee - albeit their produce is neither ingenious nor outlandish they do, however, retain a particular finesse to cast the superficial as the supercilious - going to singsongs and buying Coca-Cola - dreams come true when they are not even looking. You play, you pay, you bastard.
Even if I sleep now, since I am already quite sleepy, waking up tomorrow will be a hard reset of the insights that I have garnered today. The bitter nostalgia that I taste in dream is my heroin. My rationality denies it; my reality refutes it; and I keep going back to it, because my subconscious mind keeps going back to it, and I keep going back to sleep. Thus I would rather stay somnolent here on this seat that hardly bristles me than to become lucid in dream - I would prefer to keep the pieces together than to scatter them in wind; I keep remembering for it once was. But such foolhardy nonsense! Such foolhardy nonsense indeed!
Intending to preserve, I have reduced myself. If two months ago I strived, now I merely endeavor; if two months ago I loved, now I like; if two months ago I had faith not to be sought from religion but from real world, now I see faith as lordly as to be nearly a contrivance. With such reduction I am much more anchored. Instead of fluctuating from ecstasy to despair, I hover around delight to dismay. I used to see obstinacy as something to be upheld. I now doubt it - solipsism dragged me out of turbidity, but it can only go so far. The rest to me is only vacancy, resembling what I thought was life's monotony, which I had smashed, for then I was a gambler, a daredevil and a pagan.
I no longer am.
The mattress cover was a bit wet; the dryer downstairs mustn't have handled it well. I wrap my legs with a corner of the quill, dried, and continue to look at my phone - Google Plus, hmm, too beautiful; LinkedIn, just Facebook in suit; Reddit, too niddering in taste; WeChat and Quora and Sleep Cycle Alarm Clock, all of them are confined in tiny, rounded squares for my ultimate pick. And I, pampered by their butt-shaking eagerness, suddenly decide all of them disgusting and instead open the Notes app to jot down a few thoughts, non-thoughts to be precise, words and lines to make up space rather than content and which I quickly delete.
Two days after Mid-Autumn Festival the kitchen behind the wall to the right of me still lingers the buzzing noises and the bursting laughters of a group of my compatriots that I unexpectedly come to despise. Their leftover dishes in the sink contrast ever greatly with their domineering heads flinched behind pairs of glasses, coddled in a persistently mild smile - concubines made of palace. But I ain't got anything to do with them anymore. Perhaps in them there was certain sensitivity that I failed to foresee - albeit their produce is neither ingenious nor outlandish they do, however, retain a particular finesse to cast the superficial as the supercilious - going to singsongs and buying Coca-Cola - dreams come true when they are not even looking. You play, you pay, you bastard.
Even if I sleep now, since I am already quite sleepy, waking up tomorrow will be a hard reset of the insights that I have garnered today. The bitter nostalgia that I taste in dream is my heroin. My rationality denies it; my reality refutes it; and I keep going back to it, because my subconscious mind keeps going back to it, and I keep going back to sleep. Thus I would rather stay somnolent here on this seat that hardly bristles me than to become lucid in dream - I would prefer to keep the pieces together than to scatter them in wind; I keep remembering for it once was. But such foolhardy nonsense! Such foolhardy nonsense indeed!
Intending to preserve, I have reduced myself. If two months ago I strived, now I merely endeavor; if two months ago I loved, now I like; if two months ago I had faith not to be sought from religion but from real world, now I see faith as lordly as to be nearly a contrivance. With such reduction I am much more anchored. Instead of fluctuating from ecstasy to despair, I hover around delight to dismay. I used to see obstinacy as something to be upheld. I now doubt it - solipsism dragged me out of turbidity, but it can only go so far. The rest to me is only vacancy, resembling what I thought was life's monotony, which I had smashed, for then I was a gambler, a daredevil and a pagan.
I no longer am.
Monday, September 21
9/21
Tumbling out of bed as if fleeing, I calmed as soon as my feet are set on the road outside of Nordmetall - at 5 AM in the morning the gravel was appeasing - rustle, rustle as I moved along. At this time of the day barely anyone had woken up. The lights seemed dimmer, and cars were marveled at like an arrow piercing through the dark. And I took them, and I took it literally - the driver was never seen - on the car and in the window the only things visible were pairs of headlights, and even they would disappear swiftly.
Thoughts were as useless as language. Intuition ruled. I commanded myself to walk, to gaze, to bust out cobwebs, and to snap pictures of faintly lit trees and buildings that were unpopulated, but I didn't talk, think or even enjoy. It was all there to be felt, to be merged, and to be stopped. I moved; beneath my penis the legs oscillated, grasstips swang and mud churned. And that was it. The stroll was brief and containing - I saw myself as infinitesimal and almost irrelevant. The oversized green t-shirt and the body it covered were mere anomalies, heated up and vital, contrast to everything that surrounded. And I couldn't help but wonder, how much more distance would they travel? How much more time would they shine? At least it all appeared static, and thus it all appeared eternal.
Soon it was the end; behind the church I waited for salvation - Owen, a chunky figure, oh there he was to greet me, "good morning, let's jog", and at once we started to jog. 4 laps were not an easy task and I had to adjust the breath; a lump-sum of energy was pumped into my body or squeezed out of it. And as I jogged more attentively the world faded; the dark and the quiet retracted; a tinge of my sense of familiarity steadily revealed. Owen had been jogging for years in streak - his unaffected, concluded posture intrigued me, and my ego strained to keep up. It was still night, and there was no distinction between the sky and anything beyond campus. But suddenly I smelled evening - as if the two of us were jogging around the Campus Green several hours after dinner and into the night, when life had just started to be fun. Beginning to sweat mildly, I took off my overcoat, the one I bought from Marktkauf last winter, and threw it to the side. It was the same place where she and I first talked. But it neither aroused nor discouraged me. I had excised the part of my own from reality, and turned it into something remote and absurd and comically admirable.
Never mind the past, I had taken photos and written poems, those shall suffice. My pursuit had become grander than just these human tomfooleries, even the grass and breeze and star and tree - magnificent and exquisite they were but stale and diminutive. Having nothing to report to the police and living in a peaceful country, I was content. When I walked out, I was escaping dream; when I walked back I had yet again convinced myself that it was not true. I was happy, even light-headed. What a wonderful morning! Just as people braced for another day of routine I had already finished it, falling back to sleep!
And by the end of the day, as I lay down to fiddle aimlessly for a few moments to prepare myself for another round of sleep, all that had remained was an impenetrable line in the Notes app of my iPhone:
"Dream: remnant of noodles and cute letters to someone else."
Thoughts were as useless as language. Intuition ruled. I commanded myself to walk, to gaze, to bust out cobwebs, and to snap pictures of faintly lit trees and buildings that were unpopulated, but I didn't talk, think or even enjoy. It was all there to be felt, to be merged, and to be stopped. I moved; beneath my penis the legs oscillated, grasstips swang and mud churned. And that was it. The stroll was brief and containing - I saw myself as infinitesimal and almost irrelevant. The oversized green t-shirt and the body it covered were mere anomalies, heated up and vital, contrast to everything that surrounded. And I couldn't help but wonder, how much more distance would they travel? How much more time would they shine? At least it all appeared static, and thus it all appeared eternal.
Soon it was the end; behind the church I waited for salvation - Owen, a chunky figure, oh there he was to greet me, "good morning, let's jog", and at once we started to jog. 4 laps were not an easy task and I had to adjust the breath; a lump-sum of energy was pumped into my body or squeezed out of it. And as I jogged more attentively the world faded; the dark and the quiet retracted; a tinge of my sense of familiarity steadily revealed. Owen had been jogging for years in streak - his unaffected, concluded posture intrigued me, and my ego strained to keep up. It was still night, and there was no distinction between the sky and anything beyond campus. But suddenly I smelled evening - as if the two of us were jogging around the Campus Green several hours after dinner and into the night, when life had just started to be fun. Beginning to sweat mildly, I took off my overcoat, the one I bought from Marktkauf last winter, and threw it to the side. It was the same place where she and I first talked. But it neither aroused nor discouraged me. I had excised the part of my own from reality, and turned it into something remote and absurd and comically admirable.
Never mind the past, I had taken photos and written poems, those shall suffice. My pursuit had become grander than just these human tomfooleries, even the grass and breeze and star and tree - magnificent and exquisite they were but stale and diminutive. Having nothing to report to the police and living in a peaceful country, I was content. When I walked out, I was escaping dream; when I walked back I had yet again convinced myself that it was not true. I was happy, even light-headed. What a wonderful morning! Just as people braced for another day of routine I had already finished it, falling back to sleep!
And by the end of the day, as I lay down to fiddle aimlessly for a few moments to prepare myself for another round of sleep, all that had remained was an impenetrable line in the Notes app of my iPhone:
"Dream: remnant of noodles and cute letters to someone else."
Wednesday, September 9
9/9
Sitting on my bouncy office chair, as usual, I find myself at a complete loss at what to do. My recent days has become the most peculiar of what I have seen - peculiar in what regard I don't know, but it is such that the person I am now, a person from whom I seek and derive most of the joy seems exceedingly a stranger - as soon as I start doing things, like waking up in the morning at seven every day to train students, or showering and trimming before classes, each of these things will incarnate as a different person, a person who is in front of me but nevertheless oblivious and indifferent to my being, and a person who is not me. And I observe, with penetrating consistency and awe, him doing things with an increased elegance and esteem - speeches are uttered clearly without hesitation, goals are undoubted, and he appears to not take pride in what he is doing but to accept it as a kind of flawless and unbreakable routine.
"This is quite irregular, I know him. He is not like that." Yet I can't help but feeling a bit ecstatic: he is indeed too good; he is indeed the embodiment of perfection; he doesn't even have to pee, and other disorderly conducts like eating in the servery and jogging before dinner he does but out of etiquette and respect for norm. I suspect, if given the chance, he will just exist with his buttoned shirts and buckled jeans, and smoothly and smilingly glide. The weather is awesome this afternoon, but for him there's neither shadow beneath his hands nor fluffs floating in the air, not even tables and chairs, windows and curtain, only a sky whose blue is meticulously hued and several deliberate clouds as decoration. Even the sun isn't there; there's only sunshine in a sublime tranquility. Almost religious!
Beyond his upright stance, I sense no love or hatred or the secrets and flamboyancy of souls, but an evenning-out of all of them, a process of manufacturing so intricate and deep that upon its surface is a sinuous banality - tiresome and unflattering - a screen entirely scratched yet functionally robust in every conceivable way; a black body recklessly extreme in magnitude but dull and changeless however one is seeing it. I have admired him fondly; and although I have wanted to talk with him, and to ask him some questions, I always refrain because I am too unclean, like a clown in the pool, whose strokes are awkward enough yet who still hopes that nobody notices him.
Sometimes he'd exude some sadness though. But those occasions are getting rarer and rarer; for firstly, he isn't entirely sure why he is feeling sad, and secondly, like a tropical tree in the middle of the desert - there might have been a forest, whose destruction no one foresees and whose history no one relates, the only determinable fate about the sadness, is of at least a concealment and at most an erasure. He hardly feels it now, which is good; only then his mission is complete.
I don't agree with him though. And I presume all the accusations of my naivete come from this. There is too much weight for my world to become as ethereal as his - nearly everything that tries to escape will be caught with more attention, and the result is unsurprisingly a corpulent mess. I know the right choice to make and the correct course of actions to take; yet due to indolence or nostalgia or an inexplicable yearning I don't feel ready to do it, and perhaps will never be able to.
That is how I differ from him. I always carry forward with me my own history. Stale and sleazy the occurrences in it are, I treasure them like a newborn baby simply because they were mine; they were me.
-
iPhone 6s was released with the new rosy gold color. I would have made enough by the end of September to afford two. Yet I will not spend an extra - there's no need, and now my interest in these appliances is so overshadowed by a disdain of how superficial and innocuous the joy they provide is that I actually am not going to afford even one. And it is with this disdain that I preserve myself.
-
You're a greedy greedy man.
You want everything,
Now you know you can't.
Tuesday, September 1
9/1
In this aircraft cabin nothing compels me more than the will to write, even more so than the need to sleep. However, after wolfing down an entire glass of whisky and taking a sip on a second glass of wine, the only noticeable change seems the return of slowness - on all four of my limbs there exerts a weight, hindering my motion in such a way that although I wave my arms as agilely as before, the actual command of them takes on a genuine challenge.
I remember, on the returning flight from Munich, I felt exactly the same - I was as intoxicated and as quizzical as right now. What differs is my attitude towards the act of writing itself. Undoubted is the fact that I have so far written quite a lot, and that among these of my written works several merit at least some literary value - but what end, I question myself, does it serve if by writing nothing vaguely of reality is altered, and nothing remotely of my quest is accomplished? I try to capture my life at its utmost clarity - I exaggerate every bits of it I consider memorable; yet, there is always more to be missing; and there is always this helpless fate that by venting my anguish I barely change it, and often I will be faced with an outcome that is worsened by when I contemplate and conclude than by when I devoid myself of thoughts and instead pursue literal happiness that tends to fulfill in the immediate moments.
Nothing appears to present itself more clearly than the depressing pain of attempting to understand life! For to the end, it consists of only fragments - the heated tin foil that wrapped my dinner from Lufthansa, the moaning in bed, the shirt my mom washed for me a few hours back, the decade of my education, and the more decades to come that will become my work, my retirement, and my death, carried forward by a distinctness in which I'm either happy or sad, either hopeful or despondent, either married or widowed, causal but never continuous; and in it the past is merely negotiable; and the future aspired but never attained. My desire, bears too little to signify. I utilize no resource, persuade no peer, and upkeep no promise - I move laterally like everyone else nonetheless and writing is a consolation, an entitlement with which I falsely elevate myself, "hey you vagabond infidel", "hey you heartless peasant", and "hey you who drunken yourself not with alcoholic drinks but with milkshake and cinema and vacation and whatever pedestrian". Yes, that is me; that is, upon retrospect, what emerges as the goal of my writing. And what could possibly be more depressing?
Waking up from the dream which I have dreamed repetitively, I proceed to say something, but I stutter - I have already said everything I should, and therefore am left with nothing else to say. My nose is stuffed up and my throat is a bit sore. I have forgotten to put on long-sleeve shirts, mistaking this flight for a regular flight to Chengdu or to Shanghai. While the person I am now might be an abridged version of my previous self, I intend to bring normality back to my days. I don't miss any meal; I drink plenty of water; I sleep sound; I go occasionally to see some relatives and talk with students regarding the manner in which their training should continue. And I realize these things, hassle-free as they are, I deal with the same severity as if I am preparing for a major project - and beyond I hardly shed any thought - not that I don't want to, it's just that, when seen objectively, my recent affair is so rife with unflattering occurrences and regrets that the only option to keep my health and sanity intact is to be as artless and as superficial as is allowed by my conscience. I am not, however, incapacitated. Because I too, am wholly aware of the peril of dwelling in the past; the future for me is supposed to be about different possibilities, and in no way may I assert that any of those possibilities is inferior to the one I have envisioned. Although, I am sincerely scarred, and will hence become a more callous and knowing person than the one I want to be. And reluctantly and devotedly I accept.
I have yet managed to live an unbroken fairy tale; and my jealousy for those who incidentally do shall be eternal.
I remember, on the returning flight from Munich, I felt exactly the same - I was as intoxicated and as quizzical as right now. What differs is my attitude towards the act of writing itself. Undoubted is the fact that I have so far written quite a lot, and that among these of my written works several merit at least some literary value - but what end, I question myself, does it serve if by writing nothing vaguely of reality is altered, and nothing remotely of my quest is accomplished? I try to capture my life at its utmost clarity - I exaggerate every bits of it I consider memorable; yet, there is always more to be missing; and there is always this helpless fate that by venting my anguish I barely change it, and often I will be faced with an outcome that is worsened by when I contemplate and conclude than by when I devoid myself of thoughts and instead pursue literal happiness that tends to fulfill in the immediate moments.
Nothing appears to present itself more clearly than the depressing pain of attempting to understand life! For to the end, it consists of only fragments - the heated tin foil that wrapped my dinner from Lufthansa, the moaning in bed, the shirt my mom washed for me a few hours back, the decade of my education, and the more decades to come that will become my work, my retirement, and my death, carried forward by a distinctness in which I'm either happy or sad, either hopeful or despondent, either married or widowed, causal but never continuous; and in it the past is merely negotiable; and the future aspired but never attained. My desire, bears too little to signify. I utilize no resource, persuade no peer, and upkeep no promise - I move laterally like everyone else nonetheless and writing is a consolation, an entitlement with which I falsely elevate myself, "hey you vagabond infidel", "hey you heartless peasant", and "hey you who drunken yourself not with alcoholic drinks but with milkshake and cinema and vacation and whatever pedestrian". Yes, that is me; that is, upon retrospect, what emerges as the goal of my writing. And what could possibly be more depressing?
Waking up from the dream which I have dreamed repetitively, I proceed to say something, but I stutter - I have already said everything I should, and therefore am left with nothing else to say. My nose is stuffed up and my throat is a bit sore. I have forgotten to put on long-sleeve shirts, mistaking this flight for a regular flight to Chengdu or to Shanghai. While the person I am now might be an abridged version of my previous self, I intend to bring normality back to my days. I don't miss any meal; I drink plenty of water; I sleep sound; I go occasionally to see some relatives and talk with students regarding the manner in which their training should continue. And I realize these things, hassle-free as they are, I deal with the same severity as if I am preparing for a major project - and beyond I hardly shed any thought - not that I don't want to, it's just that, when seen objectively, my recent affair is so rife with unflattering occurrences and regrets that the only option to keep my health and sanity intact is to be as artless and as superficial as is allowed by my conscience. I am not, however, incapacitated. Because I too, am wholly aware of the peril of dwelling in the past; the future for me is supposed to be about different possibilities, and in no way may I assert that any of those possibilities is inferior to the one I have envisioned. Although, I am sincerely scarred, and will hence become a more callous and knowing person than the one I want to be. And reluctantly and devotedly I accept.
I have yet managed to live an unbroken fairy tale; and my jealousy for those who incidentally do shall be eternal.
Sunday, August 23
8/24
Flossing has been of an odd satisfaction to me, but it is only today that I have learned the hazard of overdoing things - one of my front teeth is missing a corner because I was too carried away indulging myself in such a rare joy. Although, beside some moderate discomfort when my tongue accidentally reaches the front, there's nothing deserving of a cogent concern. The notion of living with it disgruntles me. Yet I know in a mere few years of time, this broken tooth will constitute the new norm of how I view myself, and even become an inseparable part of my body.
I don't know when I have incurred such a scar; obviously flossing alone will never bear a power so destructive. I postulate it must have come from a long time ago; for vaguely I remember getting hurt, and have forgotten when and why. It does not, and will never bar me from eating though. In fact, I just ate a box of rice - I need to gain a little weight and at the same time, eating seems a fairly convenient way of being oblivious. The haunting noise of that mishap will alleviate when I commit myself to the act of chewing, not that its volume or degree will lessen, just that it will associate with me in a different form - since the front of my mind is occupied with the enjoyment of food, it hence becomes unlikely for me to harp on something less tangible. Similar to when I am drinking at the barbecue stand or hastening for a subway door that is about to be closed - the door did close before I set foot in the cabin, but the operator was kind enough to reopen it for me, the affliction will always be tuned down, implausibly as it would feel like to me in these other moments. And so I ponder, how will it play out, if finally the clingy emotions slacken and wounds cure, and I am occupied externally by everything that cheers me up, and the memory ends up wandering in the dusty shelf less used, when I know that the past is still quite there and would, however, retain my dispassion in the face of it? The answer eludes my brain, in spite of the fact that I, most certainly, will not care. Ultimately, just like the same many pinkie-swears I made during the years of my elementary school, these promises I made so resolutely merely a month ago, will inevitably shatter; so will each of them. At the beginning, I dare to imagine, it is going to feel like a slap on the face; but in the end I will lose either the interest or the incentive to actually chastise myself. Dubbing it an ineluctable phase of growth, I will walk away entirely intact. This is, at least according to me, a less-than-honorable ending. Yet the irony is, I am unbacked at every level, and the only sane option appears an eventual concession - a very caustic and profound lesson indeed.
The torment I have felt so deeply up until this moment, the clenching of teeth, the punching of pillow, the smashing of phone, the reluctance to eat, so many goofy tears and saliva and a horrendous peek at the suicide, these will perhaps become my upbringings - that in the future I should always take care of myself no matter how indignant I feel, and never allow another person, intimate and caring as she may be, to steer my own happiness. But these realizations, come off a price whose payment drains me, and a loss whose sincerity decapitates me. And I, numb and weary, glance at the pair of rooms where I once dwelled, at the black kettle with apple juice, at the video in which I shake my butt, at the rain and snow and sun outside of that glass window, at the stickers on it, at the drawing of me with toothbrush, at the two campus cards I carry simultaneously, at the bag of condoms, at the cinema, at the hotel room, at the toilet in which she is taking a D, at the hairdryer I used to dry her shoes, at the gentle whisper, at the screeching groan, at the Big's 1995 cap, at the riverside bench, and at the seashore of Lisbon, only to find a simple truth, that is, for this male earthling of twenty years old, in his limited lifespan, the spot that is the most unadorned and tender, has already been taken by a person who has loved and hurt him, and whom he has hurt and loves.
-
There's only one bottle of beer left, and I don't plan to drink it - one bottle will never make a difference to me and as a matter of fact it even helps me recall things more lucidly. I'm casting my eyes for wine now, a little hesitantly for I don't want to change my name to Dimitri and move to Russia upon graduation. But I digress. I won't change my name and I won't move to Russia. I will still allow myself a week-long window to be pensive about the past, and occasionally to relive it - though the images are often blurry and I am hopelessly alone in there, it serves as a tribute to those good-old days which I now think I'm entitled to call.
One thing that is still with me, perhaps one of the few things that still braces me, is my finesse in objectifying my own life, so no matter how dark and deserted it feels and how latched I am to such grandeur of misery, I can laugh it off as I would to that of the other's. I make fun of it, I depict it with clarity, and I sympathize with what has happened, watching my own soul crumbling while patting the back of that orphan down the street - o' so unbearably sad, someone else's suffering.
-
A timely epiphany has been captured amidst the meager soil of my thoughts, that rather than dwelling on the deteriorating emotions that will surely drag me down to the unthinkable, imposed on my reality are worldly issues whose direness is beyond estimation by my current state of mind, that in the coming years I would have no means of support aside from the payment of university fees, that I will be living entirely off a campus card, which alone, convincingly is not even going to cater to the necessity. And if the students ask for further rebate, and it is entirely in their reason to do so, I will have been deprived with all the alternatives but the bleak mire of debt. My health, bad as it is, still underscores a likelihood for a possible strife. However, alcohol makes me functionally inapt at addressing even the most trivial of problems and depression is snuffing out the last few glimmers of brilliancy for which I so ardently vied. I'm fully fledged at telling myself not to panic; I am not at my liberty, for that would cripple the already tarrying faith my entire family has placed on me. Sardonically, it is during these times that God will lead me away from the notion that I shall carry all the weight in my solitude, and that all the steps I have taken thus far will end up unrequited. Yet I no longer feel certain about a thing. I don't feel certain about anything. All I sense is a sort of dreadfulness not as an emotional contrivance but as a result of meticulous calculation. It is all wickedly dreadful, dreadful and dreadful. Van Gogh left this world saying "the sadness will last forever", and I am terminally scared.
-
I can barely recognize myself. Even my endeavor to write is failing me - I have lost all the elegance of prose and indifference of mind; I have lost my words. What I see formerly as a capable person is gone; what's left is a moving lump of patchwork. I wreck myself to the last of all pieces, hoping to smash the stubbornly limerent core; I keep beating it, keep beating myself of no avail. It won't fucking die off - it just won't no matter how hard I fantasize and hoarsely I scream. Seeing in the mirror is a vacant corpse rid of soul, I have tried and corrupted every single trick; but it is still there.It's still fucking there! Just one fucking summer, just ten fucking days! I'm tossed and burned and disposed of like rubbish; and then I re-tossed, re-burned and re-disposed of myself! What's towards the end of it? I'm fucking penniless, bereft, and defamed! And she fucking hates me now! I fucking hate myself now! Why the fuck can't I just stop!? Why the fuck am I writing this bullshit instead of pissing off!? Why the fuck with every single of my belittled aspiration utterly ruined am I still not hating her and moving on!? Why the fuck!!! (Life is too short for any such bullshit.)
Oh dear Lord please grant mercy to this struggling youth; please point for directions and escort me out of this mist, fainted and agonal and with the last reserve of strength I pray.
I don't know when I have incurred such a scar; obviously flossing alone will never bear a power so destructive. I postulate it must have come from a long time ago; for vaguely I remember getting hurt, and have forgotten when and why. It does not, and will never bar me from eating though. In fact, I just ate a box of rice - I need to gain a little weight and at the same time, eating seems a fairly convenient way of being oblivious. The haunting noise of that mishap will alleviate when I commit myself to the act of chewing, not that its volume or degree will lessen, just that it will associate with me in a different form - since the front of my mind is occupied with the enjoyment of food, it hence becomes unlikely for me to harp on something less tangible. Similar to when I am drinking at the barbecue stand or hastening for a subway door that is about to be closed - the door did close before I set foot in the cabin, but the operator was kind enough to reopen it for me, the affliction will always be tuned down, implausibly as it would feel like to me in these other moments. And so I ponder, how will it play out, if finally the clingy emotions slacken and wounds cure, and I am occupied externally by everything that cheers me up, and the memory ends up wandering in the dusty shelf less used, when I know that the past is still quite there and would, however, retain my dispassion in the face of it? The answer eludes my brain, in spite of the fact that I, most certainly, will not care. Ultimately, just like the same many pinkie-swears I made during the years of my elementary school, these promises I made so resolutely merely a month ago, will inevitably shatter; so will each of them. At the beginning, I dare to imagine, it is going to feel like a slap on the face; but in the end I will lose either the interest or the incentive to actually chastise myself. Dubbing it an ineluctable phase of growth, I will walk away entirely intact. This is, at least according to me, a less-than-honorable ending. Yet the irony is, I am unbacked at every level, and the only sane option appears an eventual concession - a very caustic and profound lesson indeed.
The torment I have felt so deeply up until this moment, the clenching of teeth, the punching of pillow, the smashing of phone, the reluctance to eat, so many goofy tears and saliva and a horrendous peek at the suicide, these will perhaps become my upbringings - that in the future I should always take care of myself no matter how indignant I feel, and never allow another person, intimate and caring as she may be, to steer my own happiness. But these realizations, come off a price whose payment drains me, and a loss whose sincerity decapitates me. And I, numb and weary, glance at the pair of rooms where I once dwelled, at the black kettle with apple juice, at the video in which I shake my butt, at the rain and snow and sun outside of that glass window, at the stickers on it, at the drawing of me with toothbrush, at the two campus cards I carry simultaneously, at the bag of condoms, at the cinema, at the hotel room, at the toilet in which she is taking a D, at the hairdryer I used to dry her shoes, at the gentle whisper, at the screeching groan, at the Big's 1995 cap, at the riverside bench, and at the seashore of Lisbon, only to find a simple truth, that is, for this male earthling of twenty years old, in his limited lifespan, the spot that is the most unadorned and tender, has already been taken by a person who has loved and hurt him, and whom he has hurt and loves.
-
There's only one bottle of beer left, and I don't plan to drink it - one bottle will never make a difference to me and as a matter of fact it even helps me recall things more lucidly. I'm casting my eyes for wine now, a little hesitantly for I don't want to change my name to Dimitri and move to Russia upon graduation. But I digress. I won't change my name and I won't move to Russia. I will still allow myself a week-long window to be pensive about the past, and occasionally to relive it - though the images are often blurry and I am hopelessly alone in there, it serves as a tribute to those good-old days which I now think I'm entitled to call.
One thing that is still with me, perhaps one of the few things that still braces me, is my finesse in objectifying my own life, so no matter how dark and deserted it feels and how latched I am to such grandeur of misery, I can laugh it off as I would to that of the other's. I make fun of it, I depict it with clarity, and I sympathize with what has happened, watching my own soul crumbling while patting the back of that orphan down the street - o' so unbearably sad, someone else's suffering.
-
A timely epiphany has been captured amidst the meager soil of my thoughts, that rather than dwelling on the deteriorating emotions that will surely drag me down to the unthinkable, imposed on my reality are worldly issues whose direness is beyond estimation by my current state of mind, that in the coming years I would have no means of support aside from the payment of university fees, that I will be living entirely off a campus card, which alone, convincingly is not even going to cater to the necessity. And if the students ask for further rebate, and it is entirely in their reason to do so, I will have been deprived with all the alternatives but the bleak mire of debt. My health, bad as it is, still underscores a likelihood for a possible strife. However, alcohol makes me functionally inapt at addressing even the most trivial of problems and depression is snuffing out the last few glimmers of brilliancy for which I so ardently vied. I'm fully fledged at telling myself not to panic; I am not at my liberty, for that would cripple the already tarrying faith my entire family has placed on me. Sardonically, it is during these times that God will lead me away from the notion that I shall carry all the weight in my solitude, and that all the steps I have taken thus far will end up unrequited. Yet I no longer feel certain about a thing. I don't feel certain about anything. All I sense is a sort of dreadfulness not as an emotional contrivance but as a result of meticulous calculation. It is all wickedly dreadful, dreadful and dreadful. Van Gogh left this world saying "the sadness will last forever", and I am terminally scared.
-
I can barely recognize myself. Even my endeavor to write is failing me - I have lost all the elegance of prose and indifference of mind; I have lost my words. What I see formerly as a capable person is gone; what's left is a moving lump of patchwork. I wreck myself to the last of all pieces, hoping to smash the stubbornly limerent core; I keep beating it, keep beating myself of no avail. It won't fucking die off - it just won't no matter how hard I fantasize and hoarsely I scream. Seeing in the mirror is a vacant corpse rid of soul, I have tried and corrupted every single trick; but it is still there.
Oh dear Lord please grant mercy to this struggling youth; please point for directions and escort me out of this mist, fainted and agonal and with the last reserve of strength I pray.
Saturday, August 22
8/23
It appears that beers, no matter how plentiful they are and how prolonged is the time I spend drinking them, have lost their effects on me. This urine-like, bubbly liquid, loathsome as it may be, is what sustains me in these of my gloomiest days. I have even inadvertently become a master of beer-pouring. With this glass of around fifteen centimeters in height, I can keep the foam for as long as half an hour. What is worrisome though, is that in the aftermath I usually feel much worse; there would be an inundation of emotions - an enormous infatuation of what has long ceased existing, and an unanchored, perhaps irrational guilt that arises from how firm I once was in a commitment, and from how equally firm I now am required to be in breaking it off. I still find it improbable, at the moment, to wholly imagine myself without those preserved in the vividness of my memory; but I reckon, one day when I eventually do, it is going to be the same ecstasy, as overwhelming as the day in summer when I first met her. And unutterably, it begets a pity - my life from now on will never be as complete - it will, of course, continue to fulfill in the days coming ahead, but inescapably the past will have always been bruised.
The couple at the Hong Kong Express restaurant in Marktkauf will be taking a day off tomorrow. Before my departure for China, I promised them that I'll bring a carton of cigarettes along - at first I proposed ChungHwa, but they thought that it is too expensive, as a carton of twenty or thirty euro will definitely do. I haven't bought any yet. For I considered doing start-ups and making money a more pertinent pursuit, and indeed I made quite a lot, albeit before long I squandered all of it. Shame to admit that only now do I think of buying cigarettes for that couple, of hanging out with friends back in middle school, and of inviting my favorite cousin over for a treat which he himself could seldom afford. Happiness might be of standing abundance to some, but so far it has not been for me. A smile out of her weren't meant to carry forward as much as a smile out of me, and hopefully it is not too late an insight to be gained.
I just went to the kitchen for a usual box of microwaveable rice. And like the hundreds of times before, I touched for the switch that would turn on that particular light - it did not work. The light was already broken when I came back from Shanghai; I managed to make it work for a brief moment, circa one or two days until it completely shuts down. Yet, immediately after, I felt an insurmountable grief - it was this light that illuminated the darkness during those countless nights when I studied alone and would creep out for something to stuff myself. But I kept calm and opened the fridge. In it there were several boxes of the type of rice I'd like to eat - both my mom and papa had bought some, half of a watermelon with the other half turned into serviceable slices in my plate this afternoon and a glass of juice, and many more vegetables. I closed the fridge, turned on the other light from the dining room, and put the box into the microwave - the other three lights would work just fine, and I barely noticed that deep inside the fridge, there were two bottles of chili sauce that came from Sichuan.
In the movie Spirited Away, there's a line I vaguely remember - life is a train heading towards the tomb; there are many stops and not everyone will accompany you till the last one. When they have to get off, don't trouble them, just be grateful and wave goodbye.
The rain suddenly comes as it patters crisply on the window. From a distance the swishing sound of car wheels running over water can be heard. In this empty room on my empty desk are empty beer bottles and a sinking soul - I recount with voices subdued and expressions soothed, yet not a word is said; thumping on the floor between the pair of slippers, tears are gushing all over my face; yet not a word is said.
The couple at the Hong Kong Express restaurant in Marktkauf will be taking a day off tomorrow. Before my departure for China, I promised them that I'll bring a carton of cigarettes along - at first I proposed ChungHwa, but they thought that it is too expensive, as a carton of twenty or thirty euro will definitely do. I haven't bought any yet. For I considered doing start-ups and making money a more pertinent pursuit, and indeed I made quite a lot, albeit before long I squandered all of it. Shame to admit that only now do I think of buying cigarettes for that couple, of hanging out with friends back in middle school, and of inviting my favorite cousin over for a treat which he himself could seldom afford. Happiness might be of standing abundance to some, but so far it has not been for me. A smile out of her weren't meant to carry forward as much as a smile out of me, and hopefully it is not too late an insight to be gained.
I just went to the kitchen for a usual box of microwaveable rice. And like the hundreds of times before, I touched for the switch that would turn on that particular light - it did not work. The light was already broken when I came back from Shanghai; I managed to make it work for a brief moment, circa one or two days until it completely shuts down. Yet, immediately after, I felt an insurmountable grief - it was this light that illuminated the darkness during those countless nights when I studied alone and would creep out for something to stuff myself. But I kept calm and opened the fridge. In it there were several boxes of the type of rice I'd like to eat - both my mom and papa had bought some, half of a watermelon with the other half turned into serviceable slices in my plate this afternoon and a glass of juice, and many more vegetables. I closed the fridge, turned on the other light from the dining room, and put the box into the microwave - the other three lights would work just fine, and I barely noticed that deep inside the fridge, there were two bottles of chili sauce that came from Sichuan.
In the movie Spirited Away, there's a line I vaguely remember - life is a train heading towards the tomb; there are many stops and not everyone will accompany you till the last one. When they have to get off, don't trouble them, just be grateful and wave goodbye.
The rain suddenly comes as it patters crisply on the window. From a distance the swishing sound of car wheels running over water can be heard. In this empty room on my empty desk are empty beer bottles and a sinking soul - I recount with voices subdued and expressions soothed, yet not a word is said; thumping on the floor between the pair of slippers, tears are gushing all over my face; yet not a word is said.
Tuesday, August 18
8/18
According to Dylan Thomas, a writer who writes his books on, rather than between, whisky is a lousy writer, and he is probably American. I don't write either on or between whisky; I start writing before opening any bottle, and what I drink, is not whisky but a particular type of beer that is local to my city - very plain beer but alcoholic nonetheless. It perhaps does clarify that I am not an American and assure that I am not lousy. After all, he who drinks and gets drunk and spews on his own at the corner is not lousy; it is, at best, unfortunate, and at worst, miserable. But ultimately, it does not matter either way.
Originally I aimed for barbecue with beer. Yet sitting at the table were at least two people, and at one particular table there were six of them, only on the steps sat those who are single. Since I am only one person, and I do not want to sit on the steps, I choose beer only - three bottles of them, not more lest I confide something against my wish, and not fewer so they do intoxicate. Carrying these bottles is a task unto itself, and the weight on my left hand seems to convince me that I am already drunk - I naturally feel a tad dizzy and walk more strenuously. "Look, there is a cat hiding beneath the car, now what you coward! But ugh, if I want to kill it, I will kill it. The problem is, would I?" Inebriation makes everything philosophical, so I repeat inward, would I, and laugh and walk back upstairs; this time with three beer bottles.
My ghastly demeanor unsettled my mom. She came in once to offer me a cup of lemon tea with honey, and she just knocked again with a bottle opener, asking if I'd want to have some toasted cauliflowers - no, of course, for she can in no way comfort me and I do not even want to be comforted. I keep typing, occasionally gazing around for thoughts on how to continue, and keep typing. To the least, I mutter thusly, I still have the composure to bring back beers, and to drink them while typing, rather than to shout "it is all ruined and I'm ruined" and collapse into total despair. Huh? It's a good thing.
And ahoy mate, it feels great. No resentment, no bittersweet, no regret, nothing. As I slide slowly back from the bathroom with a freshly emptied bladder, I saw my mom crouching on the floor in her bedroom, watching TV - she ain't remembering a thing from that damned screen I bet, and she just keeps watching because somehow it relives her. Oh this shitty place that smells like how gazillions of those so-called ordinary have lived and died, I flounder with my hands waving mid-air, laughably useless as I try. "Man, you have lost all of your dignity and respect, who are you but a cynic, a loser and a freak? Your aspiration is destined for doom and your pretense is seen right through. Get lost and go eff yourself, lad!" Sure, sure, I answer intuitively, and I do nothing because for some reason I think I'd still linger around.
After several cups of water, miraculously I found myself sober. I turn off the green fan to the back of which I used to pour peppermint to make the room smell better; it is facing me at a direct angle, looking at me with its stern front - one year ago the cover went loose and I fixed it. The air conditioner whose age is larger than mine, is still functioning in the background. Its remote is now placed under my Beats by Dr. Dre headphones, shiny like new because my mom has always taken great care of it. The room temperature is set at 27°C. I feel cozy and warm. I am reminded not of those hours I spent waiting for a girl in vain; I am reminded of how many more months of solitude and struggle with which that tragic romance can happen, for myself. In the end, it is about me; it is about my own naivety; it is about my own past.
Thanks though; if the God in my dictionary has taught me anything, it is always to be thankful. Therefore, thanks.
Originally I aimed for barbecue with beer. Yet sitting at the table were at least two people, and at one particular table there were six of them, only on the steps sat those who are single. Since I am only one person, and I do not want to sit on the steps, I choose beer only - three bottles of them, not more lest I confide something against my wish, and not fewer so they do intoxicate. Carrying these bottles is a task unto itself, and the weight on my left hand seems to convince me that I am already drunk - I naturally feel a tad dizzy and walk more strenuously. "Look, there is a cat hiding beneath the car, now what you coward! But ugh, if I want to kill it, I will kill it. The problem is, would I?" Inebriation makes everything philosophical, so I repeat inward, would I, and laugh and walk back upstairs; this time with three beer bottles.
My ghastly demeanor unsettled my mom. She came in once to offer me a cup of lemon tea with honey, and she just knocked again with a bottle opener, asking if I'd want to have some toasted cauliflowers - no, of course, for she can in no way comfort me and I do not even want to be comforted. I keep typing, occasionally gazing around for thoughts on how to continue, and keep typing. To the least, I mutter thusly, I still have the composure to bring back beers, and to drink them while typing, rather than to shout "it is all ruined and I'm ruined" and collapse into total despair. Huh? It's a good thing.
And ahoy mate, it feels great. No resentment, no bittersweet, no regret, nothing. As I slide slowly back from the bathroom with a freshly emptied bladder, I saw my mom crouching on the floor in her bedroom, watching TV - she ain't remembering a thing from that damned screen I bet, and she just keeps watching because somehow it relives her. Oh this shitty place that smells like how gazillions of those so-called ordinary have lived and died, I flounder with my hands waving mid-air, laughably useless as I try. "Man, you have lost all of your dignity and respect, who are you but a cynic, a loser and a freak? Your aspiration is destined for doom and your pretense is seen right through. Get lost and go eff yourself, lad!" Sure, sure, I answer intuitively, and I do nothing because for some reason I think I'd still linger around.
After several cups of water, miraculously I found myself sober. I turn off the green fan to the back of which I used to pour peppermint to make the room smell better; it is facing me at a direct angle, looking at me with its stern front - one year ago the cover went loose and I fixed it. The air conditioner whose age is larger than mine, is still functioning in the background. Its remote is now placed under my Beats by Dr. Dre headphones, shiny like new because my mom has always taken great care of it. The room temperature is set at 27°C. I feel cozy and warm. I am reminded not of those hours I spent waiting for a girl in vain; I am reminded of how many more months of solitude and struggle with which that tragic romance can happen, for myself. In the end, it is about me; it is about my own naivety; it is about my own past.
Thanks though; if the God in my dictionary has taught me anything, it is always to be thankful. Therefore, thanks.
Sunday, August 16
8/16
Now I sit on my routine wooden chair in front of the desk that faces the window; different objects are scattered around the desk with the same randomness as one year ago - only now the curtain is closed and I'm not interested in reopening it, for such an act requires me seeing it as worthwhile, and no, it is not worthwhile. A new shopping mall was erected in front of my apartment building where I lashed myself to move forward, and the road and the street lamps and the cars are all veiled visually, with occasional bursts of sound reminding me of their past, and putting me into reminiscence.
Only recently, have I realized that the depression I once pridefully thought I have is not depression at all, it is mere discomfort, a mild ailment that is not debilitating, upon which no one genuinely suffers, and about which no one eventually cares. Now my thoughts are plastered, my body congealed, I type on the keyboard - the plate of grapefruit and pear slices to the left of my laptop does not arouse me, and nothing arouses me to the extent that typing the act itself is the straw I agonize myself to grasp. More than that, the start-up that I will set up next semester, the unfulfilled duty to my students, and the pills which I take to make myself cosmetically tolerable, I do these things no longer out of a diminutive but nevertheless operant aspiration, but out of an automation, out of them as prerequisites of my continued existence - this is depression, a depression so bizarre that I'm willing - I still have the SSRIs and benzodiazepines, and they are readily in the drawer within the reach of my right arm, and I do not want to take them, even the temptation of doing so is avoided like a plague. For it is in reality that I corporally pass by, and it is in dream that I dwell in the past.
What is still agreeable though, is that the world is still revolving around me. The young man from Jiangxi is still working at his barbecue stand, from 11 PM to 4 or 5 AM in the morning, depending on whether there are customers, not knowing that I will not be one of them; the Shanghainese old lady is still washing her dishes in her windowless apartment, and her husband is still watching television - they know that the crying baby living next door will never return, and they offer a hug and proceed with their own mundane matter. Everyone is still having their lives, happy or bitter, sometimes either, sometimes both. None seems affected, in the same way that none will seem affected if I die instantly - they might try to talk you out of it, they might hug you, they might grieve for a moment, and they walk on. Why the hell can't I do it? I indeed can. Indeed there is nothing in this world that cannot be foregone, the sole distinguisher being its value - the happiness in the past one year, or the happiness in the future, just that I ain't so sure; and I refuse to be.
Henry Miller once said, the best way to forget about a woman is to turn her into literature. But for me, she is always quite the opposite of literature, and if anything, what that literature requires is a form of detachment that I could never attain, for in it there inevitably shall be traces of her. My usual contempt for things loses its potency. And if, in the future I managed to get over it, no matter how earnest I will have become, and how righteous the reasons I will have used, that future, will seem to me, at this precise moment, on this precise day, an utter deviation of my worth that I consider to be the most applaudable, a vicious and ever sickening betrayal. (P: June 29, 2017 - I felt neither righteous nor earnest, only a sort of inevitable oblivion, inkstain washed away; Mar 27, 2021 - no, she has never been washed away.)
-
It is with the greatest self-constraint that I did not delete any blog post from the past one year. Whenever I read them, I watch what was once part of me turning into a folly satire, a satire so close to being a real-life romance that every time I think of it, I chuckle with regret and weep with delight.
Only recently, have I realized that the depression I once pridefully thought I have is not depression at all, it is mere discomfort, a mild ailment that is not debilitating, upon which no one genuinely suffers, and about which no one eventually cares. Now my thoughts are plastered, my body congealed, I type on the keyboard - the plate of grapefruit and pear slices to the left of my laptop does not arouse me, and nothing arouses me to the extent that typing the act itself is the straw I agonize myself to grasp. More than that, the start-up that I will set up next semester, the unfulfilled duty to my students, and the pills which I take to make myself cosmetically tolerable, I do these things no longer out of a diminutive but nevertheless operant aspiration, but out of an automation, out of them as prerequisites of my continued existence - this is depression, a depression so bizarre that I'm willing - I still have the SSRIs and benzodiazepines, and they are readily in the drawer within the reach of my right arm, and I do not want to take them, even the temptation of doing so is avoided like a plague. For it is in reality that I corporally pass by, and it is in dream that I dwell in the past.
What is still agreeable though, is that the world is still revolving around me. The young man from Jiangxi is still working at his barbecue stand, from 11 PM to 4 or 5 AM in the morning, depending on whether there are customers, not knowing that I will not be one of them; the Shanghainese old lady is still washing her dishes in her windowless apartment, and her husband is still watching television - they know that the crying baby living next door will never return, and they offer a hug and proceed with their own mundane matter. Everyone is still having their lives, happy or bitter, sometimes either, sometimes both. None seems affected, in the same way that none will seem affected if I die instantly - they might try to talk you out of it, they might hug you, they might grieve for a moment, and they walk on. Why the hell can't I do it? I indeed can. Indeed there is nothing in this world that cannot be foregone, the sole distinguisher being its value - the happiness in the past one year, or the happiness in the future, just that I ain't so sure; and I refuse to be.
Henry Miller once said, the best way to forget about a woman is to turn her into literature. But for me, she is always quite the opposite of literature, and if anything, what that literature requires is a form of detachment that I could never attain, for in it there inevitably shall be traces of her. My usual contempt for things loses its potency. And if, in the future I managed to get over it, no matter how earnest I will have become, and how righteous the reasons I will have used, that future, will seem to me, at this precise moment, on this precise day, an utter deviation of my worth that I consider to be the most applaudable, a vicious and ever sickening betrayal. (P: June 29, 2017 - I felt neither righteous nor earnest, only a sort of inevitable oblivion, inkstain washed away; Mar 27, 2021 - no, she has never been washed away.)
-
It is with the greatest self-constraint that I did not delete any blog post from the past one year. Whenever I read them, I watch what was once part of me turning into a folly satire, a satire so close to being a real-life romance that every time I think of it, I chuckle with regret and weep with delight.