简介
随笔
After a brief silence, in fact, nothing happened yesterday, and the same is true today, making one wonder if tomorrow will repeat in the same way. The long-repeated anticipation, untimely imaginations, and restlessness, remain still in front of the screen. Despite setting a countdown date, seeing the numbers decrease, the heart remains chaotic, a predictable frequency yet resonance is hard to find: always leaving expectations to others, reading many her lip languages on the screen, only to find that what is needed is not to speculate about the unspoken, but to learn to write self-declarative Braille.
Overindulging for too long, the stomach and intestines become hunched, thoughts become sluggish, chewing turns into mechanical maintenance, a compensation for sensual pleasure, a celebration in a fantasy land. Fried foods have become priests, desserts the offerings, the moonlight sparse, the screen vast and bleak, I just quietly chew. Taste also involves substitution and metaphor, with complex grammar, only after swallowing do you realize what you like is not something fresh, but the rough and chaos of industrial products, just that everything is put into strange bags.
Just like New York. Hundreds of millions of passersby in a hundred days, I am a defective white candle, factory-set, desolately burning among the streets. Thinking life is full of stories, romantic adventures, and twists upon twists, thinking I would understand the taxi driver from Africa, a poet from an Eastern European country. In reality, people with stories are rare, even among the Japanese, faces are dull, always facing the ground, pleasantries forever lack freedom, clichéd and dissatisfying. You come from Jordan, yet you still talk about colonialism in an air-conditioned room, with a sanctimonious look that displeases.
But dissatisfaction is merely limited to dissatisfaction. There are too many things that make one feel inferior, the order of names on a display can shatter a night's good dream, leading to prolonged hesitation, fantasizing about disasters, imagining the next city, fantasizing about writing for a loved one and burning manuscripts, an effort not worth the cost.
After many days of sorrow, a single unread message is more exhilarating, yet not as much as an unread reply that causes unease. Having envied the eventful for too long, one starts to fear when nothing happens, starts to fret over minor things in major ways, performs to a certain extent, then begins to avoid crowds.
The problem is, the problem is (decisively and frivolously), the era (yes, once again discussed) lacks not poetry, lacks not discourse, lacks not silent veins of ore surging with cold wax, burning desolately (and desolately or palely) on the streets after the rain, empty.