odds n' ends
どこでもいいよ
i. I like a yellow that is neither too bright nor too dark, a kind of transparent mustard, the murky sort of sunlight cast through sullied stained glass onto fragrant wooden floors. Not the floors that surround me right now—these have been owned by too many strangers. No, I am talking about the ones back home: red cedar planks that creak when you step on them, echoing the weight of your own existence. You jump up and down in attempts to amplify the sounds, and your mother shouts from downstairs to quit fooling around and come down for dinner.
ii. In this sense, my mother’s love is too much: the steady stream of WeChat links detailing everything from “How to Get into Top CS Grad Schools” to “The Secret to Happiness,” pulled from suspiciously sourced Chinese websites. The ringing of newly dusted wind chimes and the aroma of sun-baked sheets whenever I arrive home from a long semester. I never did say thank you. I still remember that time in fifth grade when she sat me down on a park bench and spoke about honesty and the weight of words. When she finally kissed me goodbye and said “I love you,” I heeded her teachings and replied with a “I don’t know what love is, so I don’t know if I love you.” And now whenever she tells me “I love you,” I instinctively answer “I love you too” because I hate to see her cry. iii. Too is too easy a word to say. The number of people who enjoy both Beach House and Yoga Lin is too little, so you cry a little too. i. The texture of rope in this tug-of-war dictates my idiosyncrasies. Half a year has gone by now, but I sometimes still let the hardened flax dig into my skin so they may form calluses already. A worthy distraction, but I was raised sheltered. Summers spent in a small corner of the bedroom where pixelations mimicked a delicate script. They took me to obligatory vows before I learned how to reason properly.
ii. I think about a hurricane somewhere. It drowns the fishermen to feed the fish. There is grace in the way their bodies were dragged from shore—a gentle maneuver on whose part? It is a shame I already knew how to swim. iii. A list of things that are not romanticized in memory: ambient music that does not complement the mood, a slow disregard for unsanitary windowsills, a stupid water boiler. iv. I’m probably crueler than you think. Even my mother tells me this. The same waves wash over me and I am no longer interested in your stories. Pillow talk is how you reveal your insecurities, but neither of us were kind listeners. Tonight, there must be some other incentive to dream: the promise of another mindless summer, a lack of jurisdiction for our depraved vagaries. There is an easier way to settle into this image, but the neighbors do not stop whispering sweet somethings. There is an irony in the way we should hold conversation: interruptions at timed intervals, a lingering politeness, noninvasive rhetoric. This awkwardness should be kind of nice: a pleasant diversion in lieu of denser topics. It was supposed to be a secret that I hesitated before the words I wish to say. Yet, this peppermint left my mouth burning. It does not stimulate, only coerce a more muted means of expression. Maybe I speak a little bit louder now. I am not too fond of this. I think about how ridiculous it is that people enjoy spicy cuisine. You, too, probably think I am ridiculous.
There is a large housefly trapped between the glass window and the mesh screen. It should die of asphyxiation by tomorrow morning. But tonight, the buzzing is consoling. The places we visit in imitation lucidity are far too practical for comfort. The smarter alternative is to wake up. Or go for a swim with birds. But these options do not coincide with your outdated philosophies. I sometimes wish we were less sensitive people, so I can still feign the sweet allusion of formality. What were we talking about again? Oh, I remember now. The way you cope with an uncomfortable situation is lethargic reasoning. But our very discourse right now stems from logical fallacies. Huh? My room is silent now. Right, misplaced irony. Someone more passionate should prove the existence of forgetting. i. A flamboyant character in garish attire tells the story of a starving man, stranded at sea, who cried over the fish he was forced to kill. A beautiful Arowana, king of the waters. When the starving man caught the same fish again, he would not be able to differentiate between his own tears and mere stretches of brine.
ii. I store in a conch shell the elegy to my idealism. Key set in B minor. On windy days, it echoes some vague notion of someone who was once more merciful. iii. This is neither a story of hero complexes nor an allegory of conditioning. I thought forgoing this thing they call expectation would make me a kinder person. But I realize that even my nightmares are idyllic in nature. I visit them on sad nights, happy nights, drunken nights alike, before settling back into gradients of wakefulness. And this distinction is probably cruel. That is, the dreamverse governed by my ideals can only be populated by marionettes donning the faces of people I know. They do not speak about themselves. Or the things they like. The way they sip their afternoon tea. Someone wearing my face plays a supporting role in someone else's noir movie. There is no ticket guaranteeing passage from one theatre to the next. The parasitic cycle is karma. We all play fools, pretend this little box is soundproof—paper orchestra, paper symphonies. But my ears are as poor as my eyesight. I sometimes pick up the old conch shell and still hear a song of gratitude. is a good song. When will Kingdom Hearts 3 come out? Who knows? I digress.
Someone told me to use simple words. I can prove to you that I am a simple person. Please burn the dictionary in your hands—it has no meaning. We can restrict the English language to two hundred words instead. The rest is too heavy for me to carry. We are neither too late nor too early, only walking in circles: a slow Fibonacci. I can tell you my life story in simple words too. Long ago, there was a sea. And then there wasn’t. Ah, a tragedy. Let me try again. There is a contradiction between what is natural and what is not. The euphemism for that is human. But it is so sad to think that androids cannot make flowers bloom. No one remembers the time capsule from some uneventful summer’s day. The rust on the small machine understands. It waits for no one. Three is cliché. I make friends easily. I share my secrets easily. Yes, the fourth wall is broken. But that does not make you special. Who cares if you believe in special relativity. I am like a snail—I lose myself in the places I choose to bury. Snails do not have spinal cords nor brains. They forget easily. The afterword. Dear internet stranger: thank you for liking my smile. |
Authora little cynical & tired Archives
July 2019
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