Forgettable

The cramped kitchen dimmed whilst I packed the nut filling and store it in freezer. The half-done of the food project reminded me of those videos I watched online. Back in 2016, I indulged in watching their rustic outdoor cooking. Onions, tomatoes and chilli peppers are essential ingredients, plus red powder and yellow powder, or other masala. Most of the time, they stewed all the colourful ingredients into a paste, for better digestion, I assumed. Sometimes the culinary was time-consuming, they cooked from daytime until night, which was a testamemt to the dedication to gastronomy.  Why did I watch people cooking the food I have never had a chance to try? Nor will I be able to cook because of the paucity of authentic spices. Maybe because of the iridescent ingredients, or the relatively clean landscape. Time has been long enough for me to forget why I did it, in 2023, I want to call out to the 2016-me from a foreign country to let me know that I successfully forgot or forgave. I co...

An orange truck swept the leaves on the sidewalk this morning, it took three rounds to collect them all, leaving traces of water behind the truck. I remembered how sands struck my face in those windy days when I walked in city center last year. Seeing that they finally paid attention to the cityscape, I guessed my unspoken inner voice was magically heard.

Thanks to two cups of morning coffee, I'm lucid at 3:03 a.m. but I somehow want to say good evening, to my love. And, good night to myself.

12:15 p.m., I took the sweet bread and sourcream to the aisle beside the courtyard wall. I moved the broken chair to make sure no one could see me eating there. I put the sourcream lid onto a dusty desk strewned with dry guano. I dipped the bread in my left hand into the sourcream in my right hand, as if they were burrito and guacamole. Few minutes later, six sparrows landed on the plastic barrel under the water spout. They drank some water, flew back to the tree. Then, a crow showed up on the fence, dropped to the barrel to sipped water as well. I threw a piece of bread to the ground, but they weren't those doves surrounding me in the park, they didn't take the food. Instead, something furry crawled towards the bread, which I thought was another type of bird. I was shocked to recognise it was a rat when one of its obsidian eyes peeked at me on the right side. I had never seen any rats since I was here. Anyway, I scared it away intentionally. I fed myself, stood up. I looked at...

As you know, processing the deep meanings hidden in words has oft been a vexation for me. I'm no more than a pariah with legs like jelly in a world where the obscurity is trendy. However, sometimes I do want some help from the virtuoso to understand the exquisite metaphors, well, if there was anyone I could ask, for free. I'm not sure if the description is metaphorical or not but it's somehow intriguing, I can't get it out of my mind. Here we go -- A famous writer emerged joyously from the tropical jungle akin to a monkey, with bananas and a bottle of drink in hands.  Is it the identity replacement or combination? I'm bewildered.  Thanks for reading the cyclic overthinking of an overthinker. Not dead yet, not forgotten yet, I'm incubating the letter like an aged hen. Death and oblivion scare me not.

On the fallen-leaves-dotted sidewalk, a gush of golden pixies ran to me rabidly in the orange-noon sunshine. They stopped right under my feet. I smiled, I felt I was loved. Let me do a challenge to depict the moment in fewest words.  Marigold noon, golden pixies sprint toward me.

Chilly Saturday, after work, shopped alone. I walked there with the weary heart caused by the hours of intensive work. It was sunny yet chilly. I walked all the way to the left, I didn't sit for a minute during the work, I kept walking until I saw some benches at the entrance of a mall. I sat down, I sniffed the honey-like fragrance behind me, I turned around, I saw the little white flowers. Background music was in English. I stood up, walked straight, a row of parking lots, the signs.  I found the powder to boost the growth of flower roots, a tiny pack in the corner of shelves. I looked around the shop twice, they sold orchids, cactus, small roses in pots, seeds of dahlia and lily etc. But among them, the yellow rose I saw online was not found. I spent some time to glance at the wee seeds sold in packs, no rose seeds either. A lady was beside me, searching for her ideal flower seeds. Behind her was her man holding a shopping basket in hand, waiting for her patiently to make the fi...

The toothache in my half-lost tooth is killing me tonight. In this sleepless night, I think of a song, more precisely, the MV of this song. The first time I heard it was from a blog, where the blogger posted a song regularly. Since I forgot the username and password to that blog that I followed the blogger, I can't go back there again. As usual, I don't remember the blogger's name either. I'm not good at keeping names in mind. I like the poignant expression of sorrow in the song, but if you indicate that would be us, then, I'm afraid I can't agree with you. Feel free to mock me, blame me, hate me or torture me. Say me is a ridiculous joke, say it is just all for the attention you think I desperate for, say I'm just too bored, say I'm not qualified for a life, say whatever you want, it doesn't matter. Feel free to react, to create. You must think the water from my pathetic eyes is hilarious, that's why you asked me to wipe my eyes with my toes. We...

So fucking tired, some one should just kill me to set me free from this fucking meaningless miserable life.

My face is red, I miss you. Drops of water fell off my eyes. Don't ask me why, I don't know either. 

At the moment they sat to two different rows of seats with an empty seat next to each of them, I thought I was in Scandinavia. 6 p.m., rush hour. I stood in a bus next to the backdoor. Three ladies sat in three different rows, nobody sat in the empty seats beside them. Two other ladies stood near me, I assumed they didn't feel like to sit as me. I was wrong, two sitting ladies got off the bus in the next stop, the standing ones immediately moved to the seats. Is it their societal norm or they were just introverts? Thinking of last time when I sat to the seat next to a guy who read a book, hopefully àI did not frighten them. I was exhausted as hell, I'd sit on the floor if there was no seat. I had to stared at my phone the whole way to feel less awkward, though.  How many of you care a lot about how you look like in others' eyes? Is it very comfortable to be the perfect piece in their eyes? 

For a long time, I've been confused by the ecstatic expression on people's faces when others offered them meals - either pay for the meals or cook for them. In the past two months, after I felt the soaring Engel's coefficient, teetering on the brink of bankruptcy. The reason for their ecstasy eventually dawned on me. Let's be clear first, all the food that goes down the throat to the stomach will turned into excrement, well, the body absorb the nutrients befor letting go of the rest. In the busy morden world, instead of picking food from the soil, people buy food from groceries. Hence the process of food consumption including the transformation of money to food. Therefore, we see the money-food-excrement chain. When the income is not infinite within a month, the more one spends on food, the less the individual can spend on other things lasting for longer. If they don't spend a penny on food, they can spend more on hobbies or better bags clothes etc to show off. Beca...