看看某一些人的朋友圈，他们到处的人缘关系，总会觉得他们应该很棒吧，能让那么多人喜欢跟自己相处。我并没什么羡慕啊，只是想知道这些被受欢迎的哥哥姐姐们，他们的长出到底在哪儿，是啥。
到了我们俩相处的时候啦。一杯咖啡在眼前，我一脸不满的样子。原来被他人疼爱的小圣其实是位虚伪的小丑。天上那么多颗星，人们就偏要看上一颗卫星。他的确闪得比已消灭了千年的小星星还亮，但这种光不迷人。眼睛好痛呀！我的双眼快盲了。墨镜刚好留在车子上。
热喷喷的面包出炉了 ，但是我闻到的却是狗粮。怎么回事？那还不是因为坐在我对面的是一条狗。吃吧，吃吧。很多时候，狗都是非常可爱的，但如果是一条人狗，那就不一样了。
对着世界说谎的人是你，是我，也是他。但是我们都应该还有一点点的尊严吧？看来，我面前只不过是一面镜子，那狗粮也是我的。想说一声我恨你，但内疚的玻璃心仿佛把碎片刺到了声带里，苟且的哀叹代替了露不出的真相。
好人，坏人，普通人，两头蛇，四头蛇。坦白的我就是面对不了事实。
I came home to a forest fire.
The woods outside, choking on the fumes of their own burning bodies seemed rather unperturbed as the fire crawled higher. Under the evening sun which should have only been warm enough to kiss our tired skin, charred leaves fluttered, and so landed on the third floor corridor. Walking down the aisle that is scattered with waste, the clicking of my heels echoed and from far away, I could hear the crackling of burning wood.
From my window, before the clear sky is a wall of smoke. Painting the sky grey with its body, I am patiently waiting for it to rain. It is so bright that I can't keep my eyes open, but I'd like to believe that the sky is truly grey.
I wonder if the birds outside, having been smoked out of hiding, are panicking. Their high-pitched chirps tell me nothing. After all, I'm not a bird expert.
Suppose the wind, with its gentle fanning, has carried the smoke past my rectangular view. I can see how blue the sky is again.
It is obvious that in their eyes, I'm not someone who deserves to be respected. A temp, sitting at the front of the class, telling them to quiet down and to sit but this voice, without the slightest impact, dissolves into their cries of excitement-- as an adult, the situation is miserable, thoroughly so.
Quiet, sit down! But they say "stop treating me like a dog!" Of course, if they deserve to be treated otherwise, I wouldn't know how to either. Screaming, running around in a confined space, tumbling over, getting up on their feet only to chase after each other again-- if these aren't what dogs do? Ah, yes, human children are a special breed capable of causing more trouble than your average house dog because they are endowed with opposable thumbs.
Perhaps they can sense the powerless spirit underneath my heap of clothes, and skin. Much like how even puppies are able to exert their dominance over me once they smell my forgiving heart to all that is cute. Am I proud of myself for being children's pushover? I suppose it is insulting, but if I don't care about it because I'm only a temporary presence, then it won't affect me very much. However, if I were to be honest, it hurts. It hurts a lot and I want to cry.
Am I whining, complaining too much?
Have you ever had to sit in air-conditioned room with a damp bra underneath your shirt?
This is the second time I've had to bear with it, the soaked fabric cool against my sweat-stained chest. The first time was when I was 15 and stupid, standing near the doors of a subway train in Sydney, salt water dripping, as if I'd brought the ocean out on a train ride.
Did my perspiration reach the wires? Somehow, they're digging into my skin and I feel much more constricted than usual. If this goes on, they might just slice right through my ribs-- I wonder if it's what I wish would happen. Already, I hear the fat sizzling on the grilling plate, aromatic fumes rising up to meet the sooty ceiling where age-old grime spend their time idling away their intermittent existence. The end--or rather a new beginning-- for me is to become a blackened mass of grease.
As it bites into me, I am looking at the by-product of a failed relationship. Which is more irritable, skin being pinched by an inanimate man-made material, or frowns creasing into your skin by the force of a breathing organism? Though my inflexibility irks me more, along with the number of question marks present today.
I should go for a bathroom break.
On some days, we have to tell ourselves that our grades are not reflective of our vast body of knowledge. Today happens to be one of those days for me.
Lacking in so many aspects, I now stand in front of uniformed children, holding a marker. Shouldn't teachers be... Amazing? Aren't they people who have answers to the universe, and score 101% on every test? My shoes are now the shoes of a teacher, and I find myself to be an utterly ordinary, half-witted plebeian who really shouldn't be teaching.
Perhaps the fault of a crumbling civilisation lies with its ambitious yet under-qualified (and also underpaid) force of teachers. What can I give them, as a teacher? With my empty brain the size of a pea, and a mere 70% on my Japanese exam, how dare I expect much more from those developing little children? I frown when they flunk, yet I'm not doing better myself.
A 70%, can you believe it? When I said I'd kill myself if I scored below 85%, I was stuffing my face with fried chicken, exuding confidence. Now that I've found out exactly how badly I did, I'm ashamed to even face my teacher when the semester starts.
Would my students be surprised at their teacher's academic results? I hope they never develop a curiosity towards my academic abilities. As far as I am concerned, I know nothing and can do nothing. Lying in bed after coming home from school, I wish I could close my eyes and melt into a pool of unwanted oils; Wipe me, wipe me!
Auf Wiedersehen.
This morning, the violence faced by the trees outside, even though fleeting, was enough to cause a ruckus that penetrated through the dimension of my on-going dream.
Only the heavy droplets remain to slide down the roof, and the tenacious leaves the storm failed to intimidate. It is quite rare that the birds should awake at this hour, so early in the morning. But perhaps these feathered creatures also have a reason to celebrate the end of a downpour on a Monday morning.
To all of those who were spared further tribulations in the sea of their unconscious mind, aren't we glad that we don't have to confront the truth anymore? What little revelations that might have come before the storm, already resonating with the chord coated in rust, sends the soft vibrations of feelings purposely unacknowledged to disturb the peaceful present that we have forged through a dozen lies and late nights stained with tears.
It wasn't all that unpleasant, to see you in an unbuttoned shirt leaning against the rocks. With the dark clouds overhead, you were the only being who still beamed with a warmth known once only to me. I think I was touched by your kindness, and sorry for my lack of it.
All has returned to the calm before the rain. The crickets have started to sing again. Basking in the ochre glow of my fairy lights, I will pull the lid over my eyes.
