odds n' ends
どこでもいいよ
I do not recognize the wooden ceiling fan rotating above me—it’s not even quite summer yet. The paintings I painstakingly tacked onto my walls are peeling off at the edges and I do not think of them much. 144 miles away from here, there is a room on the fourth floor of some beaten building that dons blank walls instead, yellowed from age. Someone furiously scribbles equations down. Two toothbrushes sit side-by-side in a shower caddy somewhere, waiting for dusk.
And I really liked the way he used to make tea, nonchalantly dumping the remaining leaves onto the windowsill. There is a soft resting place for decay here, masked by stubborn bravado. I take heed not to disturb this gentle state of stasis, perhaps out of consideration—an euphemism for fear. But fear is irrational, a solitary red flag perched upon some lonely hill that is ideal for sharing secrets. Though there is no need to do so anymore. Once the curtains are drawn, we lose urgency to speak through our mouths. A sad, mild addiction: the passing allergy to pollen, the sudden desire to find an air chrysalis. I am not kind, so I wish mornings can be kinder. So that he can breathe more easily. But this is not my story. Long ago, I joked about the tangibility of happiness. I realize that I really meant consistency, that the things I love have nothing to do with things that make me happy. I can condition myself to love the ceiling fan too—quite the mundane response to mundane practicalities. And even without it, the ceiling would appear as unfamiliar, a mere relic from a stranger’s dream. It is raining today as well and there is no need to depart from these four walls. There is a bitter aftertaste somewhere, but the tongue records that as sweet.
Yesterday, someone asked me to differentiate between 开心 and 快乐. I went by the textbook definition and avoided rumination. Today, I coordinate my mood with the turbulent weather. The sky is overcast and repeats itself in nuances of grey. My friend tells me that melancholy is aesthetic—I am inclined to agree. There is laughter down the hallway and I think about the persistence of memory. Not the painting. I wonder if I am an optimistic person.
But it does not matter. Years are carved somewhere deep in this building, yet we complain of square feet. There is a faint smell of freshly cut grass—it is really the smell of death. Something is dying now, probably. But the newly pirated game in front of me offers escapism, so I pretend that something is being created instead. By definition, pathological lies are easy to believe. They are like the way my mother teaches me to love the abacus. Or the way my father lectures me on responsibility. There are pills in the trash can. Tax dollars spent unwisely. It is funny how adamant we are in altering our biologies. The body is a prison, poets like to say. But freedom without purpose feels more like boredom. So preach about the possibilities of Asimov’s singularity another day. I repeat the same monotonous cycles out of habit again and tell myself tomorrow will not be the same. But no one really bothers to measure the cadence of rain. |
Authora little cynical & tired Archives
July 2019
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