Culture and tradition are proof that the pre-modern mind is a mind blessed with creativity, too much of it. Couple it with interminable hours and idle afternoons by the lapping stream, it's no wonder that our practices border the absurd and the fantastic. The fathers of our culture must have spent every moment of their tea-sipping idleness thinking of ways to act out the feeling of love while never making it known to whoever is being loved. That is why every child of East-Asian descent goes through a traumatic childhood and develop suicidal tendencies. Where is the love? Locked up in everybody's hearts~ If fortunate enough, a traumatised child will mature into adulthood and have the chance of disappointing its parents until they are buried, or cremated, as is the custom these days. Once our parents have turned into ashes, then comes the appropriate time for the blanket over our love to be removed-- our subtlety is to die for.
Now why did I turn this into such a morbid topic? Earlier this afternoon when I conceived of this idea, I was chilling by the lake, relishing in the most pleasant daydream of a jovial family gathering.
It is the season for whole buses of family to visit their dead ancestors at the graveyard, the end of March, the beginning of April. On Saturday as I rode in the backseat of my brother's Volkswagen, we drove past the graveyard and I caught glimpses of Chinese families pouring into the graveyard, visiting temples. The bags of origami Hell currency, most likely folded together while chit-chatting in a circle, made me recall the times I sat with the older womenfolk, twisting the squared paper into shapes that my ancestors would be ashamed of receiving. I wonder if the money made by these hands were ever accepted in the realm of underworld businesses.
Perhaps there is something about watching a great fire together that is capable of bonding distant hearts. Seeing the papers swallowed and transported to the realm of the dead arouses in us no sense of waste, but of relief. Why is it so? We would never know. Watching a fire is simply pleasurable. I would conjecture that our guilt is purged through the burning of our effort, and the stress of living momentarily loses itself in witnessing the dance of orange flames that remind us of life's finite nature, of the fate that lies at the end of our last breath.
I hadn't paid my respects to the dead in so long, I hope they're not mad at me. In case they are, maybe I should on a quiet Sunday morning drive up the hill to where my great-great-great grandmother sleeps and sit with her until I eventually fall asleep as well.
I'm sure I'll get my chance during the seventh month of the Lunar calendar. After all, I can't be held responsible if it is beyond my control. Please, forsake me then and carry on living the life you conspired to own.
Must I be so depressing all the time? It is even driving me mad, trust me, if I'm not already mad enough! Why is it that I want to die but don't want to live? I need Jesus in my life. Or maybe not, then I'll be under the light's guard and harm can never come my way. Now, I recall the prophecy of my future: It is destined that no one could harm you.
Guess who lives another day?
心事未分明水恐被鬼惊细思难改救暗路失明燈
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