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.
