Bursting with money and a whimsical longing for love, the cabin in which I will be inhabiting for the next two hours and fifty minutes reeks a granulated, warmed-over smell of vegetables boiled with flavor enhancers. Because she comes from the West. You know, she has a real western manner and I am an Eastern guy; we need these inconveniences, they're undeniably cute - the sebaceous disgust of spending too much time, and the sour anguish of spending too little. A woeful swashbuckler and a softheaded girl, we are just trying to get this thing up and running, with patches after patches and a fardel of sunken cost, smiling and grudging while being semi-conscious of what's actually going on.
I don't always contemplate though; sometimes I would cease remedying it and sit back to watch the whole thing falling apart, and admittedly there's certain enjoyment that comes with it, the blissful liberation of no longer having to think, of letting loose the emotions long constrained, but I'd budge after a minute or two - not that it's too indispensable to forgo; it's just that, like virginity and human life, one can only wholeheartedly cherish it once, and the notion that such cherishment becoming an irreversible past disheartens me, and drains the would-be duplicitous sincerity of my soul. Never mind, I approach myself, it ain't that hard, these human affairs and what not, don't worry a thing, don't worry a thing, and don't worry.
My dinner is ready and I soon finish it, a set of beef rice with a single raw small tomato and a plastic glass of Coca-Cola with ice, not particularly delicious yet it spares me the trouble of finding a restaurant near the middle of the night, in a city alien to my knowledge and familiar to my imagination. Countless clouds, cast mostly golden and in the usual blue where they are scant, move backwards with a rapidity elusive to my understanding. On my bouncy aircraft seat hardly any speed can be felt - I only know I'm moving westward because of the sun; and to me the day is longer than hers.
Yet the excitement, and the scoff of it, thin out pretty soon. A little hotel on the fourth floor of a building by the viaduct, on it are rapid transit buses with 30 km/h speed limit, and an odorous elevator, they constitute of who I am here, piteous and disregarding. Now she's gone, and I get to truly sit down. She's both ailed and hundreds of kilometers away - a hapless state, which neither I nor she seems to confront. The Green Day punk music is still playing in the background, out of a different pair of speakers, from those of an iPhone 5s to those of an iPhone 6 Plus, and into a different pair of ears, from those of when I was 18 to those of when I am 20. Sometimes I'd still sing along, putting forward a face of the retard for I consider it representative of the genuine punk spirit, and the emotions I once felt in between the lines are still there, completely identical in flavor and composition, only less pungent in expression and less sensible in taste. Now I prefer not to wag my head to the rhythm, as an expensive laptop is sitting on my laps and more than often, the music has stepped back to become a sort of background noise that's only to be welcomed during a concert or a special event rather than as a theme of life. Haha, you're dead; the joke is over; you were an asshole, in the loving memory, of your demise.
I have begun to use WeChat a month ago; yesterday I even followed up multiple promotional barcodes in the shopping mall to print out photos from my iPhone Photo Library for free; it was four copies of the photo I took with Winnie at a subway station in Lisbon, Portugal; the print-outs still have the promotional barcodes on them, yet I keep them in the snug protection of my pocket, hoping when she comes back after three days, she will have her unwrinkled 2-copy share.
Saturday, June 20
Wednesday, June 3
6/3
"Your heart will stop pumping, Aris, won't you fret by your scruffy bed at night or morning or whatever suits you?"
"No, you underestimate me, Sino. I will never niggle over those loathsome pets. A puny piece of rusk and some beamish light during the middle of the night, who needs more?" Yet, passingly, Aris leaned towards the credenza, posing his topful arms onto the slag from yesterday, and mumbled, "Very well, Sino," and laughed, "Sorry to wound you, I promise next time it would be better." Dove-eyed and dismissive, he grabbed the green bottle from to his left, and knocked over it, only a sip, for a horn would have depraved him, and proceeded to toast. "Cheers," he muttered to his own incredulity, and dragged his waist across for a pitiful crash - what an enchanting weather outside - the balloons stuckhung on the wall from way back were still inflatable; though no one blows into them any more - balloons seem always transient figures. Beset in his own history, Aris smiled, his voice saccharine and gesture pleased - in the hamlet, he was intrepid, slashing down peers and Hitlers as if weed. Back, he did the same, equally adamant, and equally sane. Sino was slightly riled. From his face there was no bile, only an insidious friendliness - he trotted to open the freezer laying slovenly beside the glass wall, and opened it more to retrieve the unrecyclable juice bottles from which he would drink throughout the night, and excused to leave - lover was stranded abroad and demanded help, when hardly anyone was willing to qualify at all. He stomped slackly the corridor, beeped open the door, and swiftly shut it, in the same way characters in melodramas would to fend off the ensuing zombies.
Have mercy, Sino preached to himself. Unspeakable was the agony of having to depart. Now it was his own turn - big lesson indeed, the darn karma of cleaning the same comb thrice. How many rolls to take with then? Three? Four? Unpropitious number but certainly would suffice. Yet no, not yet, better grab five, just to medicate his nostalgic, uncomprehending sore with a slightly larger number, and an odd one, ample for the amount of days ahead; plenty for another tower for the agnostic. Then he stationed himself firmly in front of the door for a moment, reminiscing and eventually packing in - Aris had been gone, leaving behind not a trail and utterly light-weight - the bills were finally clear for God's sake and the ticket had been scrounged in as well, same-old story, innocent people pay, spinners trifle and pinch and drink it away. Was it two and a half or three months? Anyways more than what he could afford but less than what he would expect; aw, a laughable couple made up with a cheeky man and a chunk of currish disciples, spitting and gulping feces up on the third floor. Enough! Sino vacillated and shouted inward, "Don't you say anything, you deserter. Just wipe up your arse and move out of the cottage."
Two bottles of the purportedly German fifty-percent cherry juice with glucose syrup in them, ranked right next to the six-pack Beck's beers, were still left unopened. It was interesting as all six bottles of orange juice had ran out, with their cadavers inserted upright into the yellow dustbin for plastic dumps which nobody had given a bloody damn past the inception of the first semester. The wrestled spoons, along with wet tissue scraps slipshodly strewed all over the floor and a broken promise, lay historically over the floor - expect no one to clean it up and be convinced that in the end it's going to turn out right. Sorry about the inconvenience caused for whomever, and he was just too high in altitude and vitality to take care of those. But there's noise, a constant buzzing sound, troubling at first but since then quelled, reverberated in his ears. Was it the sound of the air or the sound of the motor he couldn't ascertain - in it his spirit was deranged and calmed, his feet were swollen and his hands were incapacitated. He could only move his fingers and wrists, not anything above them. There was a glowering inertia, a state of confusion and some blissful dispersion in between. Softened and even deafened, the strokes and locomotion, gradually diluted - his paradise loomed in a piecemeal encroachment. His dearly beloved and his belief, suddenly became inconsequential - he lived a life; he has lived it now - and he's about to be back to his own.
"No, you underestimate me, Sino. I will never niggle over those loathsome pets. A puny piece of rusk and some beamish light during the middle of the night, who needs more?" Yet, passingly, Aris leaned towards the credenza, posing his topful arms onto the slag from yesterday, and mumbled, "Very well, Sino," and laughed, "Sorry to wound you, I promise next time it would be better." Dove-eyed and dismissive, he grabbed the green bottle from to his left, and knocked over it, only a sip, for a horn would have depraved him, and proceeded to toast. "Cheers," he muttered to his own incredulity, and dragged his waist across for a pitiful crash - what an enchanting weather outside - the balloons stuckhung on the wall from way back were still inflatable; though no one blows into them any more - balloons seem always transient figures. Beset in his own history, Aris smiled, his voice saccharine and gesture pleased - in the hamlet, he was intrepid, slashing down peers and Hitlers as if weed. Back, he did the same, equally adamant, and equally sane. Sino was slightly riled. From his face there was no bile, only an insidious friendliness - he trotted to open the freezer laying slovenly beside the glass wall, and opened it more to retrieve the unrecyclable juice bottles from which he would drink throughout the night, and excused to leave - lover was stranded abroad and demanded help, when hardly anyone was willing to qualify at all. He stomped slackly the corridor, beeped open the door, and swiftly shut it, in the same way characters in melodramas would to fend off the ensuing zombies.
Have mercy, Sino preached to himself. Unspeakable was the agony of having to depart. Now it was his own turn - big lesson indeed, the darn karma of cleaning the same comb thrice. How many rolls to take with then? Three? Four? Unpropitious number but certainly would suffice. Yet no, not yet, better grab five, just to medicate his nostalgic, uncomprehending sore with a slightly larger number, and an odd one, ample for the amount of days ahead; plenty for another tower for the agnostic. Then he stationed himself firmly in front of the door for a moment, reminiscing and eventually packing in - Aris had been gone, leaving behind not a trail and utterly light-weight - the bills were finally clear for God's sake and the ticket had been scrounged in as well, same-old story, innocent people pay, spinners trifle and pinch and drink it away. Was it two and a half or three months? Anyways more than what he could afford but less than what he would expect; aw, a laughable couple made up with a cheeky man and a chunk of currish disciples, spitting and gulping feces up on the third floor. Enough! Sino vacillated and shouted inward, "Don't you say anything, you deserter. Just wipe up your arse and move out of the cottage."
Two bottles of the purportedly German fifty-percent cherry juice with glucose syrup in them, ranked right next to the six-pack Beck's beers, were still left unopened. It was interesting as all six bottles of orange juice had ran out, with their cadavers inserted upright into the yellow dustbin for plastic dumps which nobody had given a bloody damn past the inception of the first semester. The wrestled spoons, along with wet tissue scraps slipshodly strewed all over the floor and a broken promise, lay historically over the floor - expect no one to clean it up and be convinced that in the end it's going to turn out right. Sorry about the inconvenience caused for whomever, and he was just too high in altitude and vitality to take care of those. But there's noise, a constant buzzing sound, troubling at first but since then quelled, reverberated in his ears. Was it the sound of the air or the sound of the motor he couldn't ascertain - in it his spirit was deranged and calmed, his feet were swollen and his hands were incapacitated. He could only move his fingers and wrists, not anything above them. There was a glowering inertia, a state of confusion and some blissful dispersion in between. Softened and even deafened, the strokes and locomotion, gradually diluted - his paradise loomed in a piecemeal encroachment. His dearly beloved and his belief, suddenly became inconsequential - he lived a life; he has lived it now - and he's about to be back to his own.
