简介
随笔
I've felt the cynical part of myself growing more prominent, gradually transitioning from a prosthetic to a functional part of me. Even when facing authorities you can't confront, I can offer a bit of jest that can be dissolved, or even mockery, tearing open a slit in the grand and petty quirks of life.
Despite constantly engaging in these quirks, looking down, and speaking out, the power of words often proves effective and conserved, projecting a false image and diminishing my reverence for truth. This falsehood is enjoyable; backed by a vast entity—artistic, intellectual, conscious—I become the only component in the machine that makes noise, reveling in the thrill of manipulation, including self-manipulation, to the point of self-deception. Then, as entities proliferate, navigating between them requires a viable posture to ensure the unidirectionality of discourse and the incompleteness of meaning. To converse, to use conversation to avoid conversation, expressing simple meanings in incomprehensible ways.
Cynicism is a kind of medicine. Or rather, it provides me a strategy to maintain a limited level of anger, with an added maximum dose of humor. More often, it guides concerns to flow into the turbulent stream of worry with an air of indifference. Cynicism makes me love being a spectator more, inclined to accept helplessness. It angers those who observe the cynic; I've been scolded by some, told that it's better to be quickly reprimanded as a person without ideals than to be taught emptiness and stupidity.
But I feel cynicism is not devoid of ideals, nor is it about shattered ideals, and it certainly isn't about placing ideals above all else. The ideal of cynicism is shy, difficult to encapsulate in motivational stories, confessions on walls, or epitaphs. It requires an irrational grand ideal for packaging, often based on observation, making the cynic adept at irony. Cynics do not choose to continually marvel at the beauty of life nor intermittently rage, nor do they opt to evade the structural intellect to become scavengers.
On occasion, after the rain, after smoking and drinking, cynicism shuts down most of my thinking, leaving only the ecstatic and nostalgic ideals of cynicism, even daring to carry a proud declaration.
To become a cynic in the truest sense of the word. Still bearing the fear of misfortune, the fear of being crushed and obliterated by authority, I walk humbly among crowds, sniffing out and recording opinions and discourses while avoiding conflict, or joining in at the last moment. I will always be accompanied by a shortage of worries, the worries of quirks, staying longer in the bunker until the wave approaches. I will keep repeating content without opinion, waiting for new opinions to attach to me, once again becoming an imperfect component, mixing a cough into hymns and symphonies.