There are piles of homework during the New Year holidays. So when everybody was celebrating those wonderful days with pageantry parade, I was sleeping in order to keep my stamina to fight against another pile of assignments. It sounds miserable notwithstanding, but actually I feel great. I think every day is unique and special and precious. Therefore, I don’t really concentrate myself on those so-called special days since they’re just in a manmade calendar which defines days. Notwithstanding, I wish everyone a good year.
Sometimes we need a time and space for ourselves alone (Much like Virginia Woolf’s “One’s own room”). Only when I am alone, I could talk with myself, I could communicate with my distinguished soul, and I could deliberate my ego and my existence. Hence, I often cut off all the communications with the world (because I don’t have a mobile phone, it’s much easier to accomplish that). Sometimes I meditate, sometimes I lie on the grassland stare blankly at the sky,
and sometimes I mast*#^@te to enjoy the orgasm and raptures of ecstasy secretly (sorry). You don’t have to force a smile when you face yourself if you want to cry, because I consider I am always too positive and really overly positive that I am on the brink of collapse (I say it’s a runaway positive). I want to Howl. So next time if you cannot find me, please give up because I am not available then.
I never ever dreamed to be an author when I was a little child. However, when I started to comprehend the power of words and the pleasure of writing, I desperately hope I can be a good writer, changing many people’s life as those writers who have influenced me a lot.
There’s always be a distance between dream and reality. I definitely regard myself as a “good” writer (especially writing in Chinese, and i am so proud of my masterpieces.), and I deem that I really cut up for writing (I love to write persuasive essay). But I know that I am not and will not become a “great” writer. Meticulously scrutinize those great authors, you probably will find there’s something in common among them. There’s always an astute suffering or an unbearable tribulation against those writers, and they can do nothing but write, as a swath to record those indelible and seemingly ineffable things. That’s the essence of writing; effusively release the morbidity in one’s mind.
That’s why I think I cannot. I am not so sensitive and keen; not so acute and morbid to depict those embarrass or awkward experiences. I may scrupulously carping the syntax or grammatical errors in an essay, but I cannot really on the track of writing, since all those basic things can’t and should not hinder a professional writer…no, I mean a master or guru in writing circumscribed by those limitations.
At that point, stability is the foe of literature. Unless one has a really sensitive and sentimental mind, wars or decimations are the best stimulus to literature, and I am not going to corroborate that as it’s so easy to figure it out. Sometimes it’s quaint that we love to elevate the value of tragedy and consider it to be more likely to be in the list of canon. Maybe C’est la vie.
According to some allegation, the doomsday is numbered and 26 days left now. Regardless of the authenticity of this assertion, to me, a stage of my life had just gone to its end. The SAT® Test is over, the Mid-term exam is over, and the EA undoubtedly is over, everything is over. I can carelessly embrace the advent of the end of the world. I have already sniffed an inkling of change. An upheaval is going to strike me, I think.
Have you ever had an adventure as that of Thomas Sawyer or Huckleberry Finn? Before the end of our high school life, my friends and I have a trip to Taidong. That’s not a mediocre trip; it’s a trip like that of Che Guevara or Jack Kerouac. We explored the place in a revolutionary and innovative way. We travel around there aimlessly, yet we observed Taidong deeply and thoroughly. We’d seen the spectacular natural beauty and the characteristics of its inhabitants. I remember we stayed in a B&B and probed into the new world around the B&B boldly. In the starry night, we ran ran ran ran along the river, ran til we were extremely tired. We lay on the grassland and watched the twinkle stars and the shooting stars. Staring at the endless dark sky, we said nothing, but we all knew what we were pondering. Our future, our life, and the moment. Silent, the stars began blurring, and I hoped, really hoped, that time could stop still at here.
After that trip, I was wondering whether I should study in college or not, because I thought there were many ways to learn, and college may be a waste of time and money. Though I was finally persuaded by my parents, but I really consider I am enjoying something luxury, and that makes me feel guilty. I never put the trip into oblivion. At the thought of it, I know how lucky am I that I have the privilege to immerse myself in books. To conclude, the trip really gave me another perspective toward life.
Some say college is a place for fun, but hitherto I feel really fatigue. Piles of assignments and pounds of activities really make me feel tired. I cannot concentrate on everything. This is the first time in my life that I think everything is out of control. Being a fastidious person, I cannot help but put everything aside, since I want everything I do to be perfect. The priority is manifest:
What’s the essence of college education? Why am I here? What should I do now?
Though I have to forgo many things, but life is basically made up by one after another choice. However, one thing that I am worried about is, as Mark Twain said:
What gets us into trouble is not what we don’t know; it’s what we know for sure that just ain’t so.
Who knows? Maybe my hubris and presumptuously self-conceited demeanour is something pernicious. That’s life.
Sometimes, one can merely sit in front of the computer, and nothing pop up to one’s mind. That’s the the scene right now. Not knowing what to write, I am now sitting in the library. Staring, meditating, and deliberating. But nothing comes to my mind. Even a piece of words…, no; no any stream of consciousness, I am just typing nonsense. Sometimes the aloofness in my mind hinder me, I want to write deeper but there is nothing to write. Sometimes I would query myself do I really profound enough? Enough to write? This weblog is de facto for the purpose of English Composition Class, but I sometimes put that fact into oblivion, and start to write as if I am talking to my chum…
Have you ever watched a movie called Good Will Hunting? Matt Damon is so great in this movie that any other movies he starring afterwards savor of degeneration. Sorry for digression, I just want to tell that we may know a lot of things and develop a great mnemonic system; but even we are erudite, the most important thing seemingly has nothing to do with that. I mean, if we never been to India, how can we tangibly feel the life of it, smell the air of it, and immerse ourselves in the sunlight of India? Even we learn everything from the Encyclopaedia Britannica, form textbooks, and from every resources to the most infinitesimal and detailed parts, we cannot proclaim we know that. That’s so real, yet so mirage.
Maybe my lack of experiences make me write so prosaic.