Sitting on my bouncy office chair, as usual, I find myself at a complete loss at what to do. My recent days has become the most peculiar of what I have seen - peculiar in what regard I don't know, but it is such that the person I am now, a person from whom I seek and derive most of the joy seems exceedingly a stranger - as soon as I start doing things, like waking up in the morning at seven every day to train students, or showering and trimming before classes, each of these things will incarnate as a different person, a person who is in front of me but nevertheless oblivious and indifferent to my being, and a person who is not me. And I observe, with penetrating consistency and awe, him doing things with an increased elegance and esteem - speeches are uttered clearly without hesitation, goals are undoubted, and he appears to not take pride in what he is doing but to accept it as a kind of flawless and unbreakable routine.
"This is quite irregular, I know him. He is not like that." Yet I can't help but feeling a bit ecstatic: he is indeed too good; he is indeed the embodiment of perfection; he doesn't even have to pee, and other disorderly conducts like eating in the servery and jogging before dinner he does but out of etiquette and respect for norm. I suspect, if given the chance, he will just exist with his buttoned shirts and buckled jeans, and smoothly and smilingly glide. The weather is awesome this afternoon, but for him there's neither shadow beneath his hands nor fluffs floating in the air, not even tables and chairs, windows and curtain, only a sky whose blue is meticulously hued and several deliberate clouds as decoration. Even the sun isn't there; there's only sunshine in a sublime tranquility. Almost religious!
Beyond his upright stance, I sense no love or hatred or the secrets and flamboyancy of souls, but an evenning-out of all of them, a process of manufacturing so intricate and deep that upon its surface is a sinuous banality - tiresome and unflattering - a screen entirely scratched yet functionally robust in every conceivable way; a black body recklessly extreme in magnitude but dull and changeless however one is seeing it. I have admired him fondly; and although I have wanted to talk with him, and to ask him some questions, I always refrain because I am too unclean, like a clown in the pool, whose strokes are awkward enough yet who still hopes that nobody notices him.
Sometimes he'd exude some sadness though. But those occasions are getting rarer and rarer; for firstly, he isn't entirely sure why he is feeling sad, and secondly, like a tropical tree in the middle of the desert - there might have been a forest, whose destruction no one foresees and whose history no one relates, the only determinable fate about the sadness, is of at least a concealment and at most an erasure. He hardly feels it now, which is good; only then his mission is complete.
I don't agree with him though. And I presume all the accusations of my naivete come from this. There is too much weight for my world to become as ethereal as his - nearly everything that tries to escape will be caught with more attention, and the result is unsurprisingly a corpulent mess. I know the right choice to make and the correct course of actions to take; yet due to indolence or nostalgia or an inexplicable yearning I don't feel ready to do it, and perhaps will never be able to.
That is how I differ from him. I always carry forward with me my own history. Stale and sleazy the occurrences in it are, I treasure them like a newborn baby simply because they were mine; they were me.
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iPhone 6s was released with the new rosy gold color. I would have made enough by the end of September to afford two. Yet I will not spend an extra - there's no need, and now my interest in these appliances is so overshadowed by a disdain of how superficial and innocuous the joy they provide is that I actually am not going to afford even one. And it is with this disdain that I preserve myself.
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You're a greedy greedy man.
You want everything,
Now you know you can't.
