Not hesitating to spare your boredom, I commence the journal by harping on weathers. Today's weather as it was: drafty; sun splashed down streams of golden rays which one can only witness under an Egyptian sky; clear-skied; winds occasionally seeped through the thin clouds and cast the spell. One's outdoor apparel inevitably came to collision with the aforesaid weather report, and a scruffy outfit was embarrasingly put upon as if providing a desultory answer to an unsolved question.
I deem it the kind of event that will most put you into jeopardy, the event in which you accept the kindness of the cordial sunshine and even bathe under it before the evil wind put its nail in your coffin. In a dog-eat-dog world I've been trained not to be fooled by anybody's deceptive smile. Everything seems to work otherwise now, for the determined side is never the side shown on the flip of a coin. So why bother flipping coins? I learned my lesson last year that the most lighthearted course which made you feel like sipping coffee on a sofa was actually the course that eventually, and out of nowhere, inverted your sofa and robbed off your coffee. I sometimes wonder the incident might result in the professor reclining on the sofa all of a sudden and set everything out flying on the air. No precise description needed for the aforesaid.
Part of my mission for studying in Auckland is to learn dealing with the world, at least, world on its pit. It is something that I've yet master upon and while bumping and blundering my way through, I am still constantly reminded of my failure of doing somebody/something justice, so far as to overlook the genuine goodness in the world. There the nagging question raised: is it the genuine goodness or rather, the surplus of goodness that someone claimed to still exist in this world?
That is why, the medium of dealing with the world I've yet to procure, and the whole notion to me is no more than a smokescreen of vagueness. You are ordered to add a coat to take precaution against the furtive wind yet the image of people with tees swarm pass you. The wind trails off in the wake of some guilty dodger, and the sun threatens to put you in its baking tray. There you walk yourself like a spectral spaz, and the leaves even refuse to serenade.
The confusions and frustations I've encountered whenever I'm on my way to a glorious exploration, have driven me back to my cockpit without mercy. Something I learned in my critical theory study, that a story embodies the inestimable power of the weak. The weaklings tell stories to make themselves stronger and eventually triumphs over the world they create in their mind. A pathetic theory really, but I opened my book and forgot the troubles.