I have been thinking, ever since I woke up, and while I was watching Winnie eating in the kitchen and playing Operation Metro after she finished, should I write today? What can I write and if I do write, would it be tolerable? I had no answer to any of those questions. The trees are already putting forth new leaves, in a kind of yellow green that only pertains to spring. The leaves near the treetops are, curiously, still in a lightly brown, resembling burnt crumbs of fried chicken with its color more subdued. Tailored in the entirely blue sky, the lazing-around of the scenery contrasts greatly with what I had assumed of a university, which is connecting, studying, and sometimes having fun with friends in a decreasing self-righteousness. Also birds, mostly pigeons, would just perch on random branches, preening and flying away when it occurs to them. However, what do I have to write about it? I would be the one least qualified - I have long been unable to admire the nature profoundly, and am wholly possessed by its literal, deeming all portrayals vulgar and all metaphors supercilious.
And it pretty much leaves me with nothing to write. I won't write about nature - this is the place for lamenting my humanity and my artificiality, which is not at all dissimilar with the religious cults of an animal's head or a plant's rhizome; I won't write about myself - apart from going to the jaw specialist, the dermatologist, Dr. Schmidtmann and a lawyer who's willing to handle my case, I have depleted the possibility of iterating what's inside of me. I was, from the beginning, a man without much of a story; and I still am, albeit I wrap myself in the beautiful coatings of being a struggling soul, an aspiring college student and a dedicated writer of his own history, I offer nothing genuinely new, nothing that would challenge the norm or alter the laws of physics, not even my own deplorable trajectory of being ultimately unimportant. From the outside, I have written, already more than five times about the bathroom and the tissue towers in it, and about Husain and his departure, about Alin and Alinism, and about Winnie and her entertainment show. I don't go out of the campus most of the time because I don't know where I can go, and I don't know who else I can go with. I don't go to parties because it seems a superficial way of spending one's time. Bushra did invite me, when we were chatting with other in the waiting room at Dr. Schmidtmann's, to go to C3 and make some chai with her, but she did not send me anything on Facebook, and I was too indolent to actively solicit one, so the chai eventually doesn't happen. I obviously do not know if it would happen in the future - I still reserve the right for it to happen.
It's 6:05 PM. And I'm usually a 6:00 PM guy and I'm hungry. And I have truly nothing to write. And I'll just walk away from the laptop, pull my girlfriend from the bed, knock on the door of Husain, and go for dinner.
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I just realized that I'm already more than twenty years old. Since I was born in Wuxi No. 5 Hospital near my aunt's old apartment, an innumerable lot has gone by – I have been to Wuxi No. 3 High School, eaten a fair amount of meals and excreted a slightly lesser portion of them, and what's lost has become me.
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Me and Winnie have been constrained to a single bed from last September. Although the two of us are sufficiently Asian to fit in, sometimes it still feels a tad uncomfortable, such as that when I try to stretch my leg I would almost always fear the movement would cause her to wake up, and that when she falls asleep ahead of me, it becomes nearly impossible for me to follow – since I would envy her and demand my own body to sleep faster, which usually causes adverse consequences that are the opposite of what I expect. I ignored this situation earlier, and have chosen to sleep at the other side of the bed when I became unable to ignore it – like right now: my head is facing the east, and my feet are on the chair I moved from her bedroom – she uses it as extra space and apparently I cannot do so – the skin of my feet is so rough that whenever I stir, they would hook up with the fabric of the chair, creating a noise not particularly annoying, but nonetheless efficacious in reminding me of what a pair of rustic feet I have.
