click into the boxes and hover over the empty space to reveal erased words
a blue-tinted overcast.
compulsively moving
with poetic reservation,
yachts cutting through
floating bodies. individualised velocity.
gathering sneers under umbrellas
in places that
don’t even rain.
flat monochromatic world of technicality
rigid, so painfully lacking in human dimensions.
the sensitive conventional religion
the inflexible shared sense of the darkness
black and white frame of immortal thoughts
subject to word count
false robes
could cure inertia
unstuck with trimmed down conceits
為了自信的怯弱 世代的異化 而揪扯著疲倦的前路
so irrelevant to my ego
rare, unlike the "collective."
a vice I could not be rid of.
collective souls. abortive speech.
have trampled the past.
selfhood. responsibility.
a crack in her skull.
祭悼淚影的風化 守護寂寥的優雅
dead heat of sun. crawling closer. predecessors’ progress. inevitable and painfully long drive towards homogeneity
muffled grey.
×
if it keeps on raining
Behind her back, the notes are treading in circles. The rain. A blue-tinted overcast. Perpetuating. Suffocating. How can she get better if it keeps on raining. But she likes the music of it. Unanimated, compulsively moving. She mimics the movement on the dresser. Fingers slamming with poetic reservation, only diffusing a subtle sound, on a broken piano.
Crowned at birth with the virtue of hypersensitivity. The smallest spec of dust would radiate 50 tons of overcast on my chest. But the emitted wavelength only travels at an individualised velocity, with accuracies up to 5 decimal places. So brilliantly inconceivable to the “others”. Only I must feel it. And I love how I will always feel it.
The world will stand and watch him
Build a roof amidst the currents
Gathering sneers under umbrellas
In places that
Don’t even rain.
Far from blood-red streams that keep on
Pushing.
Hissing
Stop pushing. Yachts cutting through
Floating bodies Disassembled limbs
Cheering on
Just seconds ago.
×
“10 28 13” 請不要 以數字衡量我的品格
At that moment, I felt dead. Yet unfortunately, I was not. I wished to immediately pass out and be sent to a hospital, and wake up in another dimension, far away from the flat monochromatic world of technicality, where people would just be understanding and caring. Yet I was still there, trapped in her office, looking into her stern and insensitive eyes, and thinking – “Where is your compassion?” They all readily criticized me for being so undisciplined and lazy, and always full of excuses. No. They were wrong – very wrong to be exact. It was not grades, not school work, not stress that had dragged me down to this alien and lonely dimensions of wretchedness and inertness. It was the forces of the external insensitive world - misunderstandings, assumptions, ungrounded accusations, and people who thought they knew better just because they were older. If only they had the heart to understand. If only they could break away from the rigid ideas of technicalities that were so painfully lacking in human dimensions. I thought we were human. I thought we were all on the same page. But apparently I was the outcast, incapable of reducing my emotional dimensionality to fit into society’s black and white frame of functionality. I was the unwanted vagabond, too sensitive and fragile to cope with the tastelessness of social routines, the conventional religion of academic elitism, and the inflexible and shared system of life. The system does not welcome the ideas of human emotions, individuality, and existential anxiety. The system does not believe that one, at my age, can be made wretched by such thoughts and feelings. Perhaps, like film, only the sensitive could make sense of the darkness – the sensitive, whom apparently, is absent in this system.
But the books
Are stealing time
And spaces in my head
Of
immortal thoughts
Subject to word count
Stripping away remnants of vitality
With figures and percentages
as if false robes of academia
Could cure inertia.
×
the "collective"
Come. Come. My friend. Come get unstuck with me.
But can you sacrifice your trimmed down virtues And your extraordinary conceits?
The frictional forces of academia and my growing self-interest and belief in individuality were constantly fighting inside of me. I kept on asking myself “Why am I spending so much time writing about things that are so irrelevant to my mental and emotional growth? Occupied with my ego and obsession with presenting myself as an individual, I was obsessed with being hyper-empathetic and sensitive just to prove myself as a rare human, who can feel so much unlike the “collective." I became increasingly aware of my innate selfishness, a vice I could not be rid of. I hated myself for being so selfish, for the inability to remember to wish the best for others, for unconsciously having bad thoughts, for my narcissism and pathetic efforts to elevate my mental and emotional being from the label of “teenage angst”, to want to prove to others that I am greater because I could feel more. Collective souls of abortive speech.
Stories unheard because unspoken.
Numbered graveyards.
Silenced witnesses.
Trample. Trampling.
Have Trampled.The past
Abundance of remarkable things.
Alas, the surge of selfhood
Breaks through her hardening
Grip onto responsibility.
She finds a crack in her skull.
×
muffled grey
I became bitter about all things like the dead heat of sun, the senseless pedestrians, the flatness and excessiveness of all sounds — bantering pecks, scripted silences, artificial laughter. She could, and only she could, paint her mind with thick and confident brushes, a circle of colours, a gradient of shades. (Or could she?) Each trickling colour crawling closer. Each inevitable blemish impeding its predecessors’ progress. Muffled grey. All singular attempts to digress from the path