Fragments / 碎片
Fictional, meaningless writing practice. 虚构的，无意义的写作练习
“President, you are just temporarily exempted from prison.”
This piece of cheese reeked of ammonia; it was no longer fresh. Rainy day, I grabbed my umbrella and went across the road to the supermarket to pick up a fresh piece of cheese. A week passed as I crossed the deep ditch in the middle of the road. I had to get back before the date of use. The baked bread in the kitchen had become hard and the blueberries were either dehydrated or rotten. Crossing the road, by the time I stand in the doorway and put away my umbrella, another week has passed. While the rain is still falling and the date of use encourages me to get out more often.
This room was filled with echoes of what I had said, both useful and useless ones. They were trapped in this room replaying over and over again, taking days to slowly decay. It was the room where I worked. Those voices: confidence, disappointment, joy, anger, were all echoing in my ears. I often unconsciously stopped what I was doing and carefully felt about those voices, as if I was re-encountering pieces of me at some point in the past, feeling their emotional perfection, listening to their whispered cues, reaching a tacit understanding with them in memory, and becoming friends forever. And it was in this process that I suddenly recognized some of the voices were of people who were not me but others. I tried to remove their voice from the room. However, the traitors were not easy to spot, and even those trusted pieces, began to scatter and flee. At noon, the sun shines through the glass on the floor, warming up the whole room. “Maybe every piece of me is more or less mixed with a part of someone else”, I’m wondering, and walking out of the room, already with some signs of unhealthiness. I feel the many pieces of me in those voices merge back into one behind me, invisible to me, inaudible to me. “Maybe every piece of me is someone else”, I think.
It had become increasingly difficult to understand what was written in that book. I planed to return it to the library due to my disappointment. Around the shelf where it was placed, I saw Aristotle and Hegel. “I will not make the mistakes they’ve made again”, I thought, inserting it in the place where it was written labeled <Twilight of the Idols>, but I heard the book was saying to in me: “Take my hint, or not. I know if you’ve truly loved me”.
I had been sitting around with these people all afternoon, listless, and I was about to leave when the reflection of the headlights on the side of the road stabbed a beam of light right into my eyes and I felt a headache, and the piece of me in a mirror said to me, you are about to kill a mouse like a cat. The piece of me in a clock said to me, trust me, even though my original design was already falling apart. The piece of me in a television says, the fog is coming in, the race is becoming abstract, how am I going to tell it for you. A painted me says to me, that I am a fish that exists only in the conversations of people in the marketplace, a meaningless fish, small and light in weight. A piece of me in the air says that imagination is a cushion on a couch and I am holding it in contemplation. Another piece of me told me that I was not in labor, that the blood that was hidden on that cushion was seeping out of my imagination.
I just entered the maze and saw the end. I asked my companion who sent me here, “Is this really the maze you are talking about?” He said, “Yes, it’s called a linear maze, where you can effortlessly connect the entrance and exit end to end. And it’s also an enclosed long square, only surrounded by a gray fence. A limited track, except that people only sleep on it and never run. A narrow classroom where you have to learn to share the same space with your classmates.” I was so confused by what he said, I just stepped in and saw that it was a dead end, and those who were on it. He closed the iron door and then gently locked it; he was a competent prison guard, I thought. I just accidentally exposed myself for a moment just now.
They blindfolded me for training
Bank of Lung
Components of the Times
Tell a temporary lie
Who will actually attend whose funeral between the two of us,
Eating, bathing, sleeping, writing, talking, walking, and working seem to constitute my entire life.
Opinion / 观点
Immature Opinions based on observations. 不成熟的观点
Then you realize the murmur in your consciousness. This sentence shouldn’t follow the one you just wrote, even though it happens so naturally. But it doesn’t mean it should be written that way; there’s a long-simmering thought that steals the microphone. It was just a natural context switch, and I hadn’t finished what I wanted to say, so please let it continue. I collect these moments as evidence that “I am a group of people”.
Do not argue about the methodology, argue about the method. Methodology cannot be falsified, but method can. This is my answer to the question of unprofessionalism brought by identity.
I was unsure of my ability to produce work consistently, I would be easily influenced by the environment, and in certain months I would often only be able to write a few incoherent words and sentences, let alone stories. My mind was empty, with no hint of imagination and no time to allow it to happen. I would feel fear every time I was confronted with my blank draft. But I am also quite sure that I can write, at least it has been tested, at least in the most extreme circumstances, and it has become a habit and an instinct to invent new words in my unconsciousness. I was two people, the emperor of an unconscious planet and his historian, who were connected by a distant radio.
Not all seeds sprout, not all ideas are willing to be expanded into a story.