Return

It has been more than one year, indeed…from the last time that I’ve left any trace here. Listening to Damien Rice while I’m trying to replay what has happened in the past year, have strived and failed to put all the scattered memories together.

Again, I feel the urge to write and again I feel the need to rest after a few lines, as if words would start to become impotent. For all these years, I’ve been tired for no reasons. Happiness has never been the derivatives of my reaching towards being an adult. Maybe I’m an adult already. That’s right; I have been an adult since I gave up playing with firecrackers, playing war game with my younger sisters and brothers, with whom I have barely spoken in the past few years. They have involuntarily become strangers, like thousands of other people I pass by each everyday. Sometimes I would miss them so much; sometimes I seek for them helplessly in my memories.

God, I’ve grown way older than I should be. I contemplate life with desperations. I see things with desire and anger, with an impulse to possess and destroy at the same time. The philosophers say that we are all contradictory entities, I believe I will definitely shine on that account. Can’t I for once just start to enjoy life instead of squeezing the world for bitter juice? The answer is either alcohol or “fight club”, perhaps the two combine. Let’s drink for “Fight club”, in which I might find salvation;let the chips fall where they may... It is this movie that gives me resonance to a deeper of voice of my life. For a split second on the flight back to Canada, I had wished for a crash, I had wished for the plane to ditch into the ocean, survived by only me and another beautiful girl drifting to an island of nowhere, and nobody can find. Then we built shelter and everything out of trees and orphan stuffs from the plane. That thought always gave me a good laugh from a narcissistic ridicule of the real life. Nevertheless, what’s real anyways? How do you define real? How do you define us as human being? We are nothing but number, years we have lived, years to go…when we have accumulated enough number on that odometer of our lives, we stop traveling and perish like cars, no matter how much “gas” you pump into yourself, you simply just don’t run anymore, because you have reached the destination of your destiny. We are nothing but numbers; we are the number on our bank account, credit report…Because of those, we are numb of the things we own. We could own everything, but ultimately, we end up owning nothing. We drive cars that are built by machines, live in apartment we saw on internet poster last night…We are attached to nothing. We can move to the other end of the earth and all we need is the number on our bank account, number we can use on our credit card…Pathetic!

I pray for a great war in which we can fight our invisible enemies, in which we might be able to polish out some of our phoniness…But we don’t seem to be able to have a great war. We are depressed for reasons that are so obvious, but we can’t do anything about it, as we are so addicted by the convenience that's provided by modern world. We can lavish our food since we can get more on the next minute trip to supermarket; all it takes is a deduction on our number. For all these years, I wanted to retreat to a quite corner of this planet, yet I have been afraid of the opportunity cost. What is my opportunity cost? Is it a Farris that can’t be driven over the 50km speed limit, or is it a big house that won’t be mine till I pay off the mortgage on the day I die? I had easily convinced myself that I would rather have a courser that I can ride at full speed over the vast grassland, a shanty that is built by my own hands… why have I constrained myself to thoughts and dreams? I ask the heavenly father for courage, for hope, for answers…But he says courage is to be found within myself, he says I don’t need hope, losing all hope is freedom. He says the only answer is I myself.

                                                       Wake up

When you have insomnia, you are never asleep and you are never awake. I, on the contrast, am addicted to sleep. Having been awake for only a couple of hours, I feel like to surrender myself to that bed again. Am I awake, or was I ever awake, or what difference does it make? At least, in dream, I still have the power to surprise myself.