blog/enigma

Thursday, January 18, 2007

8:27 PM

I've been thinking.
(Now those people who frequent my blog would immediately know this is a cue for them to leave as this sentence often prerequisites an over-arching and arduous post involving boring lectures and insipid insights to the deadpan Jiasheng's life.)
So perhaps you can click on the link to leave and read something more interesting, like the number of microbes you can find on a piece of hardened chewing gum sticking to the sidewalk.
What I've been thinking is- no Jiexuan, not another sensual fantasy, no gruff or hoarse voice; something more serious- is how unsuccessful I've been at my life.
If someone were to read about me, I would not protest if that person jabbed at the relatively thin paperback biography and say, "What a fool," and snapped the book shut.
Why, I would have done the same.
It's no longer a matter of how people perceive me. It's more of a self-realization that I, aged thirteen going fourteen, have so far failed in my life.
There are limits to the amount of time which you could breeze through in life and lead an idyllic style of living. The time when you need not worry about under-achieving just because you've rested on your laurels so far. It was not a race of milestones and results, but an enjoyment of the slow crawl of life's pace, akin to riding a carousal, seeing the occasion cotton fluff and lights at the adjacent ride.
I know also how a person can be pushed higher and higher into the Panoramic Tower, powered by his ego, until he crashes and fall to a bone-shattering death. And still, he might still live in his dreams of ferris wheels and sweet popcorn.
When I was a child of maybe five or six, I stared at the bills in my mother's purse earnestly, and my ambition of growing up soon was borne. My eyes tailed the pieces of paper that held so much value - sometimes a Japanese spread of raw fish, otherwise a sleek golden watch with shiny diamonds encrusted on the face.
As I grew, the appeal of adulthood increased beyond money, and in teenhood (which I've just entered), even beyond sex. No, it has more to do with drafting my future, having the freedom to plan and strive to achieve my own utopia, consisting of a mansion in a isolated island, on a cliff, breathing the sea spray and having the ten-thousand square feet place to myself, walking the twisting stairs finished with oak sheen. And perhaps, a tall gate and fences all around it.
Unrealistic as it was, and maybe with a touch of naivety, I still scoured after this lonely old structure that I knew could exist somewhere outside my heart and welcomed me into its dignified solitude.
If there was ever a heaven, I might belong there.
But as I grew, I knew it was unlikely; no, I knew it long ago, just that the notion of such a place kept the dream alive. Responsibilities progressed from shared ones to those which demanded my full attention - I realize one day they might become savage beasts, ripping ideals, goals, creative expressions, freedom, and crucially, the spiritual imaginative mansion I conjured in my mind. It was more than a simple child's ambition - it was a place I had great longing for whenever I saw this world as frightening and dangerous, and as I hid quietly in the calm of the storm, waiting for the stroke of cane that never did come.
I recall my mother several years ago, when she lost her high-salaried job of apparel designing. She sat on the mini-sofa at the corner of our 'sub-living room' tucked away at the side of the main one, away from public eyes prying from the door, in our old flat a few years ago. A pool of papers gathered mysteriously around her, for I saw no paper when she sat there at first. But soon the mystery was solved - my mother, who had always been a neat woman, had sifted through an invisible stack of paper that was camouflaged against the pristine white walls. Then, unexpected, she had in her panic thumbed through documents and scattered them on the desk like dying petals from an autumn season, and with the climatic slamming down of the phone, she lied back, the young pride refusing to offer tears. Yet during that time, when I was only fairly young, I sensed something was terribly wrong in that strong, unrocked figure I saw as the strict disciplinary figure of the house. To put it crudely, my mom wore, and still wears the pants in the house.
As for the rest, I couldn't remember, for I was plunged into a world of brass doorknobs and never-ending corridors that stretch forever into the distance, doors at the side, guarding temporary secrets. I opened one, and inside was a dazzling display of golden framed mirrors, each styled in its own right and polished to unflawed brilliance. I could hardly wait to press my stubby seven-years-old fingers, leaving some sort of mark, but then the door gently closed, and another opened. Inside, some harpsichord music played, and there was nothing else, but a balcony. I wanted to step in - the cool breeze was filtering through the soft texture of the translucent curtains, a shimmering light danced a waltz on the floor - but before I could get in, the door creaked to a close again.
And before I could attempt another door, the stretch of corridor faded away to the deafening silence. The uncomfortable buzz filled my ears with an incessant hiss, irritating and unwanted. I scratched my earlobes.
Drip.
And with that, a tiny circle stained the dark mahogany table to a even darker shade, and despite its minute size, it made quite a distinct mark.
It was about then, that I decided that I wanted to stay as a child.
But I digressed too much.
Is it alright for me to stay blissfully ignorant?
Is it normal to repress growth? I shall postulate not.
I've always thought I was the mature one, never sinking to the low ranks of classmates still conversing deliriously of cup sizes and inexperienced obscene jokes. I felt like a seasoned captain sailing in a sampan - struggling with the other ones, desiring to join my peers in mighty galleys, braving stupendous tempests, but never having the ability in this little junk, flailing with the oars, neither keeping up with the mainstream, nor ever accepted into the veteran field.
Now I have doubts.
All I know now is that I get angry when someone tells me to keep to my limits, and I get depressed when I know there's a chance that's he's right.
Others, I don't know anymore.

signed, jiasheng

19th Sept
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