There was a crucified wheeze. I stood at attention, solemn and quiet and did not do anything. My eyes were a palpitant white, and my nose was stifled. And then I awaken myself, and sluggishly braced my stature towards the pair of slippers, as if whisking off the attle from an effigy merely finished - the joviality was sobered, and I'm back into the grotto.
A voice exclaimed loudly, what an impossible person, what an impossible post, and halted for a second, ruminating, don't sweep it yet, yesterday's remains, those are unimportant. All the wings waving mid-air, and their noises, flicker like water butchering the flames, and the lights and shades of a pair dozen, cover lightly the smog and haze, and wholly. While farther out, pugs rub and odors drift. Woodperfumed sneer, from the seaside of the South, digging through the rags and wools, leans its tassel and itches. And fine motes, spur my nose, shed beyond my grasp, and beset my brain, tinkling, tinkling, till the last of drab.
Breeze, pulls a swollen carcass along the road. It bloats, backwards, with legs torsioning and tugged in sand. Leaves, from on the veranda, tremble and flutter to their bore - a brooding child, hasted towards the lucency. His neck was stiffed, his hair was unmoving, and he ran, ran, ran, merrily alive and impetuous and gradually dismembered, like decayed strings on the lyre, accompanying tenaciously after the fest has long dimmed. Little roll of dung, hangs over upon the edges, improbable and unnoticed. The fingers, unhealed from the bruise of the oils alight, frizzled and straightened, reviewing their nails in a shiny pink dulled in dusk. Fascination and spring and dried salt grain from tears, startled and drunk, caper in the louver, vaguely graceful in their final consonant to tell - in soul's repose, there will be mourning prayers and sorrowful heaves.
Astutely I stepped aside, without budging the birds perched on the tree, and squatted by the grave, a daisychain and bits of dandelion fluffs on the top. I bowed, factitiously for I was sitting, and glanced at the lofty sky hidden behind the deadwoods and poplar twigs in a clinical blue, pitiless and reassuring, like a scrape of tender skin behind the callus of scars. I know its face! Because I have seen it before in dream! And I jeer at it, and chuckle with ungirdled delight.
The night befalls abruptly. All the sounds and shapes come down to the same thing, a storied yellow-green, identical to the pastures and coastlines in imagination. Jarlessly I rise from beneath, and hum softly, a gentle song:
An old pelter / drenches my weary heart / and rinses my smelly feet / your tiny hand and an exquisite smile / in the somber attic / murmured for the parting / peace, honey / you say / let the time be / sweet and easy
Sunday, May 10
Wednesday, May 6
5/6
Thinking now decapitates me. I have never been so reluctant to think, since I tend to brand myself as a thinker, rife with originality of thoughts and uniqueness of expression. Yet not only am I no longer thinking, I am actively avoiding to do so. It is not due to the fact that I have nothing to write about; it is all the wrangling apathies of being eternally polite, and politely scornful when reasons surface. I cannot think of another cause other than the fact that I have already written thus much for me to be sitting here and writing.
I dined in C3 servery with a multitude of Pakistanis who are going to celebrate Ali's birthday. They planned, for a hundred-euro budget of a watch, as a gift for him. The brand and the design have not been determined, and the group of us has already agreed to travel to downtown together for the watch. I am, curiously, automatically included into the coup simply because I cared, after the German A1.2 class has ended, to wait in the corridor for a little longer for Atabak. There's nothing indecent of their deed. And as a matter of fact, it is in every way applaudable. Tomorrow at 10:00 AM, as they have posted on the Facebook group chat, we're going to purchase things to surprise Ali. The number of people in this group has barely changed from that of the last group, approximately twenty people, and with all of whom I have vaguely acquainted but couldn't really tell. The difference lies in their components - I, together with a couple of other lucky few, am included in both of the groups; and the majority of the members, approximately half but possibly more, have changed. People who were invited last time aren't this time; and people who weren't are in fact invited. Nobody has mentioned of this little fact - it would be of quite a killjoy if they opt to do so. However, I believe, every of us, feels that the group chat windows have popped up a little too haphazardly; and the event, though jubilant, has occurred too abruptly. After all, there is no need for two chat windows if the target population remains static. And there's something dumbfounding to me in such a fatiguing migration. We posted, warm sentences and emoticons, spicy teases and crisp humors. We typed, on the phone screens and on the laptop keyboards that are otherwise used for academic writing, things that we deem interesting for ourselves, and more importantly, entertaining for the others. And we need to make new friends, to get to know more people, to engage in jovial conversations that shield ourselves from the monotony of staying in the room and doing homework - we are thoughtful in the making of those relationships. Yet, we are never thoughtful in their losing:
"Hey, Maria, how's it going?" "…" "Hey, Jimmy, nice to see you!" "…" "Hey, the anonymous girl who always stands by the Chinese Computer Science PhD student, good morning!" "…" For sure, I am an asshole for being untruthful, and you and you and you and you, you are an asshole as well.
A huge chunk of negativity carries his negativity bible around in the campus. He wears, a dearly smile on his face, saying hi to everyone who passes him by. On the Campus Green he picks up a discarded yogurt carton and puts it into the dustbin. And he keeps on walking, with the pair of leather shoes he has bought but has never cleaned, into the gym. This place smells like saliva to him - all the muscular people are cultivating their body, and their sweat drips down on the ground. He doesn't have a proper pair of basketball shoes. O' he lies again and enters, and finds himself sitting in the bathroom. A millennial later, he takes a look at his phone, 9:05 PM - it's about time to go. He exits and curses, turds, and heads back to his room.
I dined in C3 servery with a multitude of Pakistanis who are going to celebrate Ali's birthday. They planned, for a hundred-euro budget of a watch, as a gift for him. The brand and the design have not been determined, and the group of us has already agreed to travel to downtown together for the watch. I am, curiously, automatically included into the coup simply because I cared, after the German A1.2 class has ended, to wait in the corridor for a little longer for Atabak. There's nothing indecent of their deed. And as a matter of fact, it is in every way applaudable. Tomorrow at 10:00 AM, as they have posted on the Facebook group chat, we're going to purchase things to surprise Ali. The number of people in this group has barely changed from that of the last group, approximately twenty people, and with all of whom I have vaguely acquainted but couldn't really tell. The difference lies in their components - I, together with a couple of other lucky few, am included in both of the groups; and the majority of the members, approximately half but possibly more, have changed. People who were invited last time aren't this time; and people who weren't are in fact invited. Nobody has mentioned of this little fact - it would be of quite a killjoy if they opt to do so. However, I believe, every of us, feels that the group chat windows have popped up a little too haphazardly; and the event, though jubilant, has occurred too abruptly. After all, there is no need for two chat windows if the target population remains static. And there's something dumbfounding to me in such a fatiguing migration. We posted, warm sentences and emoticons, spicy teases and crisp humors. We typed, on the phone screens and on the laptop keyboards that are otherwise used for academic writing, things that we deem interesting for ourselves, and more importantly, entertaining for the others. And we need to make new friends, to get to know more people, to engage in jovial conversations that shield ourselves from the monotony of staying in the room and doing homework - we are thoughtful in the making of those relationships. Yet, we are never thoughtful in their losing:
"Hey, Maria, how's it going?" "…" "Hey, Jimmy, nice to see you!" "…" "Hey, the anonymous girl who always stands by the Chinese Computer Science PhD student, good morning!" "…" For sure, I am an asshole for being untruthful, and you and you and you and you, you are an asshole as well.
A huge chunk of negativity carries his negativity bible around in the campus. He wears, a dearly smile on his face, saying hi to everyone who passes him by. On the Campus Green he picks up a discarded yogurt carton and puts it into the dustbin. And he keeps on walking, with the pair of leather shoes he has bought but has never cleaned, into the gym. This place smells like saliva to him - all the muscular people are cultivating their body, and their sweat drips down on the ground. He doesn't have a proper pair of basketball shoes. O' he lies again and enters, and finds himself sitting in the bathroom. A millennial later, he takes a look at his phone, 9:05 PM - it's about time to go. He exits and curses, turds, and heads back to his room.
Sunday, May 3
5/2
This is the first time I've thought of writing a page full of rant. My peculiar sensitivity of the English vocabulary proves to be quite conducive to the fulfillment of such a will. However, I do not plan to materialize it, since such an act is that of a coward, and if there's anything I have learned from my former girlfriend, it is the imperativeness of being haematocryal when the situation has fit.
I planned, before being invited for an unexpected chai session, to go out and take a walk alone. It is evident that nothing is out there. The campus filled with occasional people in the morning will be deserted by now - everyone is indoor, either reading from their computer screen whatever interests them under the light, warm and serene, or sleeping on their bed, rolling over from time to time because in dream their journey takes a different turn. Yet I felt like going out, taking a stroll that is not habitual but nonetheless somewhat mandated. Since on my computer screen hardly anything rejoices; and on my bed there's no bed sheet, nor is there quill cover, or pillow cover - it is an arid blue mattress with white beddings whose whiteness has only recently begun to dilute, resembling a Microsoft Excel worksheet in its crude form that even the most vulgar of the slide makers is conscious enough to alter. I got almost dressed up, except for zipping up my usual jacket bought from the Marktkauf. I carefully adjusted the sides of my coat so they appear symmetric, and even took a close look at my beard to determine that its length is just about appropriate.
And then I walked out, expediting the riddance with my room, turning left towards the elevator shaft, pressing the button gently with my point finger, waiting for the elevator with a consistent patience, and using the automatic switch to open the door and get out of the building. I went along a perfect diagonal, maximizing the distance I'm able to traverse under a constraint of movement energy of my own allowance. I even have the affection of planning my stroll as a romantic trip - I shall first go to the Reimar Lüst Hall, and then I shall visit the porters at the main gate before starting a trek to the right; at this point I shall savor my time of being close to nature, and turn right at the first intersection to the side gate, which I exited and entered fairly often when I needed to catch a train or return from the train station, and there it should be, finally, the upsurge of my hike - I shall stand in front of it, quiescing to contemplate, standing to lament, and packing to depart. The signal transmitter on my key might not be able to activate the sensor on the door as it's sometimes defunct. And I'll try again, pressing the button deeper and at an elevated frequency, until it finally works and opens the door for me.
And then I walked out, expediting the riddance with my room, and turning right towards the kitchen for chai. I was very impatient - my footsteps were stealthy and pieced into small, dense intervals, just like how thieves in a medieval fantasy movie would walk. And indeed it was a very surreal experience, as I have to truthfully confess that I bumped into creatures that I have not known previously - they appear human-like, ergometrically designed and emotionless. And in no way can one detect if his presence has been acknowledged. Yet, when one passes by, there would be molesting tentacles reaching out from their body, suggesting a certain belligerence, though unsolicited, has been triggered. The creatures appear in pair, and only one of them demonstrates aggressive behavior. Therefore it cannot be ascertained if such conduct is common amongst their sort. Their communication device is a particular variation of an oriental language, and they also possess culinary capabilities that may not have been well developed. Since it has been postulated that they have a predilection for the semi-cooked food, and it turns out what they are cooking is nearly toasted. Their existence also seems to have minor sedative effect, stifling table-side conversation whilst not entirely hindering it. And just like the way they show up, they would be gone without signs of social etiquette. They spooked me when I was there, leaving me prostrated and marveling at the power of the creator.
And a page full of rant it is.
Saturday, May 2
5/1
The sun shines on my face like it shines on the faces of myriad men who came before and will come after me, grilling with the sweetness of a banquet and identical, except for that there is no sun - it's midnight, or to be precise, 2:52 AM in the morning, and I got up to write simply because I cannot fall asleep. My body is constantly shivering with having jogged with Atabak several hours earlier, and I'm pretty sure that the subcontinental spices in the Pakistan food I ate for dinner agitate me.
To my surprise, the heater is still functional. In fear of cold, I turned it on. The buzzing sound was quite reassuring. I immediately felt warm. And after several minutes, I went out to find myself a shirt - I assumed, it might take a few minutes for the room temperature to rise. On the upper half, I'm wearing a striped Jeep shirt my father bought me several years back. From where did he buy the shirt I haven’t asked and do not plan to, however since then I have acquired a penchant for shirts - not only did I wear them extensively, but also they constitute the majority of what's in my chest. It brought with me a sense of maturity I had adored when I was a bit younger. Though now, passing my 20th birthday, I have become reluctant to wear them for I would like to appear more energetic and unripe. On the lower half, apart from a pair of red-and-black flip-flops and underpants, I'm wearing nothing. I have my left leg rolled up on the chair, and the right one posited downwards - a classical posture for cardiovascular-disease patients and middle-aged women. My eyes are gazing towards the laptop screen, which, on its minimum brightness level feels a tinge yellowish, at the words I have on the pages so far. Those are indeed shallows words, and the things I try to describe are indeed trivial matters. Yet they're the history I'm trying to document, in the form supposedly superior to social media posts and Facebook pictures - in here I have virtually nothing to say, but I must say something, if not I would be no different from those who party and those who digitally like each other.
Tonight there's no kettle on the table, nor is there the spray bottle to contain Winnie's skincare cream; the pile of paper is gone as well - I have broken up with my girlfriend, or "ex", a term I consider to be more appropriate than "girlfriend". Our attachment ended the moment we parted ways, and the act of continuing to call her my girlfriend would equate to calling any girl my girlfriend, and therefore is unfeasible and morally dubious - I use that term to refer to her more out of an old reality that has only recently become memory than out of a genuine dismay. In fact I'm happy, albeit not for the right reason. I take ten milligrams of citalopram (SSRI-class) every morning, and I have an unopened box of lorazepam (benzodiazepine-class) for moments when I'm particularly despondent - I have all the surgical preparations to combat my emotions. And yes indeed, with the aid of modern medicine, who the fuck needs emotions.
I have been here for almost 40 minutes. And for the latest 5 minutes I failed to continue. Forsaking sleep in favor of a journal is a capricious deed, and it becomes even more so if I completely squander the time. I dig into my brain - there's an urge to sleep, an equally strong urge to stay awake, hatred for the now-dead wasp that has stung me in the finger this morning, and sex, sex, sex, sex, sex - apart from being bitten by a bee in the morning, there's nothing at all original of a man. The weekend is lying in front of me. And I'm entirely confident that my fellow college students will all seem to have a lot of things to do, leaving out me as the only one to wonder and ask around. Hence, I decide, I will have a lot of things to do as well - I'm going to eat the breakfast, play either video games or basketball, maybe take a train downtown to purchase another batch of instant noodles for times I use up all the meal-plan money or miss the servery opening time, and for sure, sleep.
And lastly, to myself: have a good night!
To my surprise, the heater is still functional. In fear of cold, I turned it on. The buzzing sound was quite reassuring. I immediately felt warm. And after several minutes, I went out to find myself a shirt - I assumed, it might take a few minutes for the room temperature to rise. On the upper half, I'm wearing a striped Jeep shirt my father bought me several years back. From where did he buy the shirt I haven’t asked and do not plan to, however since then I have acquired a penchant for shirts - not only did I wear them extensively, but also they constitute the majority of what's in my chest. It brought with me a sense of maturity I had adored when I was a bit younger. Though now, passing my 20th birthday, I have become reluctant to wear them for I would like to appear more energetic and unripe. On the lower half, apart from a pair of red-and-black flip-flops and underpants, I'm wearing nothing. I have my left leg rolled up on the chair, and the right one posited downwards - a classical posture for cardiovascular-disease patients and middle-aged women. My eyes are gazing towards the laptop screen, which, on its minimum brightness level feels a tinge yellowish, at the words I have on the pages so far. Those are indeed shallows words, and the things I try to describe are indeed trivial matters. Yet they're the history I'm trying to document, in the form supposedly superior to social media posts and Facebook pictures - in here I have virtually nothing to say, but I must say something, if not I would be no different from those who party and those who digitally like each other.
Tonight there's no kettle on the table, nor is there the spray bottle to contain Winnie's skincare cream; the pile of paper is gone as well - I have broken up with my girlfriend, or "ex", a term I consider to be more appropriate than "girlfriend". Our attachment ended the moment we parted ways, and the act of continuing to call her my girlfriend would equate to calling any girl my girlfriend, and therefore is unfeasible and morally dubious - I use that term to refer to her more out of an old reality that has only recently become memory than out of a genuine dismay. In fact I'm happy, albeit not for the right reason. I take ten milligrams of citalopram (SSRI-class) every morning, and I have an unopened box of lorazepam (benzodiazepine-class) for moments when I'm particularly despondent - I have all the surgical preparations to combat my emotions. And yes indeed, with the aid of modern medicine, who the fuck needs emotions.
I have been here for almost 40 minutes. And for the latest 5 minutes I failed to continue. Forsaking sleep in favor of a journal is a capricious deed, and it becomes even more so if I completely squander the time. I dig into my brain - there's an urge to sleep, an equally strong urge to stay awake, hatred for the now-dead wasp that has stung me in the finger this morning, and sex, sex, sex, sex, sex - apart from being bitten by a bee in the morning, there's nothing at all original of a man. The weekend is lying in front of me. And I'm entirely confident that my fellow college students will all seem to have a lot of things to do, leaving out me as the only one to wonder and ask around. Hence, I decide, I will have a lot of things to do as well - I'm going to eat the breakfast, play either video games or basketball, maybe take a train downtown to purchase another batch of instant noodles for times I use up all the meal-plan money or miss the servery opening time, and for sure, sleep.
And lastly, to myself: have a good night!