Six or seven days prior, I read on the internet that the only way to become a good writer is to write every day for a predetermined amount of words, by which I have since subliminally abided. I have been thinking why ever would I write without audience, and without even giving the deplorably few who attempt to read a chance to get to know me more in an unabridged way. The former I have no answer, the latter I presumed, is too depriving, therefore I embedded my contact info in the page's source code. (P: Contact info has been removed from the source code on 10/17/2015, and has been placed in the copyright notice instead.) I also read on the internet that many who write have the sole motivation of being read - I never have such belief because I do not consider my writing fit for either literary or casual reader - I'm in the middle, putting bullshit and something thoughtful alongside each other, and often intertwined.
There's a hurricane passing by the Bremen region today. I noticed it when I got out of the bed for bathroom during the night. The wind was howling past the open window, creating a screeching noise sufficiently stable and loud as to not wake up anyone. I sat on the toilet imagining to pee in the hurricane outside - my stream scatters over my pants and a pair of shivering legs and flutter into the wind and into the dark and dancing with rain, to the terribly long and blaring trill of the Beethoven. As all German people are asleep, all lights turned off and all bleats fainted, I pee, in a hurricane forty thousand kilometers away from home, and before long I finished peeing - to me the act of going to bathroom is more symbolic than biological, as I refuse to accept that I'm potentially insomniac. And I sturdily rose up and intoned, bloody hurricane, and shut the window as firmly as possible, leaving muted clusters of trees reveling riotously outside. Inside the building, it was as usual notoriously tranquil. My mirtazapine-dosed roommate lurked behind his door, lying on the bed singular and mildly convulsive. His four-year-old laptop was installed right beside him, screen off - no Reddit, no Funny GIFs and unconscious. Furtively and without flushing the toilet, I sneaked back into my room, raising my feet so the slippers don't stutter, and returned to my drunk, unthinkingly rubber-stamped sleep, hoping she is not awakened by my mischief.
I woke up again in the morning. And my girlfriend was already up and trudging into her computer. It was the sound of her Apple computer starting up that had disrupted my sleep. I looked at her, and smiled weakly seeing the morning has descended once again - the canvas of the sky was painted in a perfect white, perfect for being lightly repressed, not RGB 225, but RGB 224, and fell back to sleep. My mind was bare. And I occasionally opened my eyes for visual signals to help swallow my saliva, murmur, murmur, murmur, each time, loud and remote.
Then I woke up at 1 PM. My roommate knocked on the door and I wasn't ready to answer it. He promptly gave up and went down for lunch. In less than 20 minutes I went as well, taking trays of dried bread back up to subsist my body. I listen and see, with lucid ears and clear eyes - the wind blowing through the windows, the sun shining through the clouds, and classical music, tense and graceful emotionalist piano pieces. Yet behind the whooping-it-up of the day, every once in a while the noise would quiet - for in the mirror was a soul whose feature is bland, and voice monotonic. The music blasting out from my Beats by Dr. Dre comes from Chopin, Liszt and Schumann, who once played piano but are dead and whose piano played by myriad other people as if it's their own but unaltered and invariable. I sit on the chair, intoxicated, repeatedly, when it is considered from the perspective of the entire humanity.
And I sing, a slender song, that I did not compose and no one composed. Night shall fall soon, on us all, and morning will come. For I don't have the strength to balk at such absurdity, I smile, anxiously and impatient, to that sobbing of whistler from afar, and to the soul I was given to hear it.
