It is not the Forest that Cries

"But you look at the sunrise, the Gulf of Naples, the sea, and you can't help feeling sad. And the most disgusting thing is that you really are sad!"

Crime and Punishment, part IV

In the night, the still surface of the lake mirrors the starless darkness above. Silently I walk, listening to the pattering of raindrops that assault my umbrella. A light rain on a light evening. Ripples that form as rainwater sink deep down into the lake remind me of a busy place far away, where shoulders touch, loud voices indistinct. Instead of the concrete beneath my feet, I think of the wet autumn leaves I have slipped on in an ageing red forest. 

Amidst the beauty of nature, the depth of the well bearing my sadness makes itself known. Is that the reason why I tend to look towards the sky and hope my tears recede? Then I begin to talk to myself, as if the trees are protecting my secret. The wild flowers bow as if weeping; dewdrops disappear into the soil. Taking each step without haste, crying without tears, only the soul of the forest takes pity on me, guiding me deeper into its heart. At that point, it seemed to me that only it was willing to share my burden.

I think that if I venture far enough, I might find a place to sleep. 

Closing my eyes, I imagine the season starting to change. Leaves are falling, and I am in a nest. Piling up, piling up, I'm now in a cocoon of fallen leaves. Nobody bothers to look for me because I am the one forgotten by all, missed by none. My tears, tinged with the acidity of reality, is the only substance capable of burning me. 

I scream into the night for you, but the nightingale by your window sings so sweetly that you only have ears for it. 

There, I would be cradled in the pity of nature, drowning in tears that burn in the infinite well of sadness that is excavated by a perfection I once grasped. 

Social Moth

Why am I like this? Must I really find the persons who have stepped into my circle absolutely unbearable? And I wonder why I have troubles neue Leute kennenlernen. After 20 years, I will accept the fact that the problem lies with me and not with everyone else.

Very seldom do I find a person whose taste is similar to mine, who I wouldn't mind developing a relationship with, but every time such a person comes along, I am only intimidated by their soul, which is just as ferocious. As listless as they might appear to be, electric shocks of raw energy flash like lightning in those droopy eyes-- if only one bothers to notice. These are the ones I will never come to despise as we will never bond enough so as to arouse my displeasure. Two fallen rocks of the same star will mirror each other across the night sky as they combust in a vivid light. Beautiful, only because the moment is fleeting. 

Now comes those I despise. To a certain extent, I hate all human beings equally, but, as it turns out, I hate some more than others! There are those who only leave me scratch marks that go away the longer we interact, and there are those who at first seem to be worthy of spending my time with, until their social collars break. They are like deprived dogs who have been let out of a slaughterhouse, freed from a life of confinement by mistake. Barking whenever they please wherever they please, they proudly display their optimism and appreciation for the sunlight that never loved them. Perhaps I am not one to judge as they are good persons as well, albeit distasteful. Well, they don't live to please me and I certainly don't live to tolerate them so I suppose it's an argument that neutralizes itself. 

It might be worthy to note that when I speak of people like this, I almost always refer to females exclusively. The reason being there are absolutely no males in my university circle, as idiotic as it sounds. Even I am astonished by my anti-social skills. The only males I've interacted with so far are my lecturers and the few people I've been grouped with for 10-minute discussions. Pathetic? I think so too. The male species are of an inferior existence that I do not bother associating myself with. At this rate, my next mate will have to be a middle-aged man with a steady income and a sharp mind. But of course, these men are either gay or really gay.

I come off as stuck up, and maybe I am. Yet at the same time I yearn to bond with the people around me. I really don't know what I want, nor can I decide if being alone is truly the best option. When happiness is found in solitude, an inevitable sadness accompanies it because that happiness can only be selfishly relished, never shared. And sharing, as I have come to realise, is the one source of happiness that will never let one down. 

But when a language fails to express the exact meaning of what one wants to convey, one has to turn to another language which can capture the essence of the abstract construction better, if only just slightly: 我现在没什么不满足的，只是很可惜没人与我一起分享这时的天空。

To end on a note on daily Twitch experience: If you write you have a big dick in Twitch chat, it'll probably get deleted by the moderators. However, if you write it in Chinese, along with other vulgar expressions that even I do not understand but can see them to be sexually explicit, you can basically sext on Twitch chat and those 12-year-olds will be oblivious as to what is going on as they continue to spam their HaHaas, MonkaS, and Kappas. Of course, this only applies to the non-Chinese speaking community streams. Troll Asians. 

Lies

Which is a lie and which is not? What am I telling myself and what is really going on? I can't tell. And it is unbearable.

Am I alone? Completely, and utterly? But the truth is, I need only to reach for my phone and dial any one number belonging to any one person who has laid their hands on my shoulder and said: you have me. So why is it so that I am still isolated in my 90cmX190cm bed? Do I not want to trouble any of the kind hearts, or do I not want them to see me as I am? Perhaps I even doubt their sincerity; who knows?

The stories that I feed myself in order to survive until the next day, how much do I believe in them now? Their effectiveness is, like any other drug taken regularly, becoming nil. There are no beasts to slay and no revenge to seek in this life, so why do I keep going back to those stories where solitude amplifies one's strength? Without any willpower in the first place, strength cannot exist.

Right now, I live and breathe as a lump of meat, a mass of cells, and nothing more. I shiver under the blanket even though it is hot both indoors and outdoors, refusing to sit, unwilling to open my eyes. If I keep drifting off to sleep and living those short glimpses of dreams, maybe I'll eventually have a life in one of them. Any life with feeling is better than this, right?

Wrong. My life is great. What constitute this greatness? What determines how good a life is? While it is true that there is no need for me to suffer and people who aren't in my situation would not hesitate to live in my position of material comfort, I can't seem to see beyond my internal deficiencies. That intangible pressure that squeezes my brain as well, I cannot bear it, and I cannot get rid of it. Because it is internal, it determines what I make of my environment, regardless of the actual state the environment exists in.

Thus, I will admit that my life is not worth throwing away because there is so much to appreciate. However, that is only when I am able to step out of myself and approach my situation from an external point of view. When in my own body again, isolated by the terrorizing dark clouds that threaten a thunderstorm in my already chaotic head, all I want to do is to fall asleep permanently, so I wouldn't have to live in a swirling tornado.

Excitement from waiting on my next packages keep me hopeful. Consumerism has its way of comforting the troubled modern soul,  even though it is a practice one shouldn't trust too much as it might just swallow one whole and propel one into a more painful state of being. Whether it pacifies my panic or fuels my consciousness of isolation, I do not know-- at this point, I'm too afraid to find out.

I am a strong, independent woman. I need only to say that to myself, then perhaps, I will appreciate the sunshine and smile again as I walk against the breeze of insecurity.

"Come pain, come hurt, see the Halo."

Grave Sweeping

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

   

Let There Be Light~

Why is sensitivity only heightened when one is experiencing vivid moments brought to life by troubled thoughts? Certain words take on a new meaning, specific syntactic compositions that from day to day stayed unremarkable suddenly start to carry a weight so meaningful that one is unable to enunciate their new-found purpose. One's life can change as simply as that. To put it in the universal tongue of the internet: What has been seen, cannot be unseen.

But I have seen nothing in particular. In this day and age, barren trees ablaze in fire that does not burn can hardly be taken to be a miracle, only clever mechanics. I wish too that I could have as much belief in any one aspect of my life-- any at all.

My nails need to be cut.

Instead of a flood and drowning to our miserable deaths, can we burn in pain this time? Rain is not as threatening as fire, and drowning doesn't make one realise the true extent of one's sins. There's a reason why Hell is hot, right? It'd be Atlantis if Hell existed underwater. Perhaps fire just intimidates the animal in us.

If I had to kneel by my bed and pray every night, that is what I would pray for: to suffer in flames of my own demise. Somehow, I think that if I set myself on fire, I would be untouched as the embers would quiver before my anger that burns a thousand suns brighter.

But of course, in reality every little burn hurts. The heat of the metal frame puts me in my place and reminds me that my skin would bubble and I will most definitely cry. Weakling.

"If our final day has come, let's pretend to carry on.

And if the end has now begun

live on."