In this aircraft cabin nothing compels me more than the will to write, even more so than the need to sleep. However, after wolfing down an entire glass of whisky and taking a sip on a second glass of wine, the only noticeable change seems the return of slowness - on all four of my limbs there exerts a weight, hindering my motion in such a way that although I wave my arms as agilely as before, the actual command of them takes on a genuine challenge.
I remember, on the returning flight from Munich, I felt exactly the same - I was as intoxicated and as quizzical as right now. What differs is my attitude towards the act of writing itself. Undoubted is the fact that I have so far written quite a lot, and that among these of my written works several merit at least some literary value - but what end, I question myself, does it serve if by writing nothing vaguely of reality is altered, and nothing remotely of my quest is accomplished? I try to capture my life at its utmost clarity - I exaggerate every bits of it I consider memorable; yet, there is always more to be missing; and there is always this helpless fate that by venting my anguish I barely change it, and often I will be faced with an outcome that is worsened by when I contemplate and conclude than by when I devoid myself of thoughts and instead pursue literal happiness that tends to fulfill in the immediate moments.
Nothing appears to present itself more clearly than the depressing pain of attempting to understand life! For to the end, it consists of only fragments - the heated tin foil that wrapped my dinner from Lufthansa, the moaning in bed, the shirt my mom washed for me a few hours back, the decade of my education, and the more decades to come that will become my work, my retirement, and my death, carried forward by a distinctness in which I'm either happy or sad, either hopeful or despondent, either married or widowed, causal but never continuous; and in it the past is merely negotiable; and the future aspired but never attained. My desire, bears too little to signify. I utilize no resource, persuade no peer, and upkeep no promise - I move laterally like everyone else nonetheless and writing is a consolation, an entitlement with which I falsely elevate myself, "hey you vagabond infidel", "hey you heartless peasant", and "hey you who drunken yourself not with alcoholic drinks but with milkshake and cinema and vacation and whatever pedestrian". Yes, that is me; that is, upon retrospect, what emerges as the goal of my writing. And what could possibly be more depressing?
Waking up from the dream which I have dreamed repetitively, I proceed to say something, but I stutter - I have already said everything I should, and therefore am left with nothing else to say. My nose is stuffed up and my throat is a bit sore. I have forgotten to put on long-sleeve shirts, mistaking this flight for a regular flight to Chengdu or to Shanghai. While the person I am now might be an abridged version of my previous self, I intend to bring normality back to my days. I don't miss any meal; I drink plenty of water; I sleep sound; I go occasionally to see some relatives and talk with students regarding the manner in which their training should continue. And I realize these things, hassle-free as they are, I deal with the same severity as if I am preparing for a major project - and beyond I hardly shed any thought - not that I don't want to, it's just that, when seen objectively, my recent affair is so rife with unflattering occurrences and regrets that the only option to keep my health and sanity intact is to be as artless and as superficial as is allowed by my conscience. I am not, however, incapacitated. Because I too, am wholly aware of the peril of dwelling in the past; the future for me is supposed to be about different possibilities, and in no way may I assert that any of those possibilities is inferior to the one I have envisioned. Although, I am sincerely scarred, and will hence become a more callous and knowing person than the one I want to be. And reluctantly and devotedly I accept.
I have yet managed to live an unbroken fairy tale; and my jealousy for those who incidentally do shall be eternal.
