With the herald of the sixth post of my Down Under journal, a fundamental question triggers: of all the posts am I always specifying the truths? Aren’t there some bits that I inevitably need to conceal or fib about? Exactly how much rate of credibility can be found in my journal?
Before clearing off the above suspicions, I should first refer to how I visualize my journal; how I want my journal to be. A lonesome tourist wandering on a foreign territory- passersby sense something outlandish about this person but pay no heed to suss him out; that tourist, on the other hand, detects the queer nature of his surroundings yet refuses to slow down his pace and relish upon everything. The passersby and the tourist bump into each others multiple times in various occasions, every time with complete reticence. Two curved parallel lines they are walking about.
My scrawl matches the route the tourist traces, and you passersby judge me as if I was some drunkard drinking to his fill of alienation and zigzagging the way home. While frankly the destination is never a home, tourist gets accustomed to the idea of never traveling with a single aim, a sole intention. Nevertheless a well-trained tourist is not a nomad. He polishes himself squeaky clean before bracing every adventure.
Snags are met unexpectedly, and frustrations do exist. Here I see my tourist admiringly spare none of his grunts or ire. He simply puts those obstacles into his travel bag, in a suave fashion. He carries them on his back, bag bulges with something like stones. His back, slouched but never toppled over. Walking steadily with dignified steps, he is walking on the most hazardous road.
There is one thing that nothing can replace it. For art and music are too inarticulate. Words, while a stream of marvelous sayings do move anyone to tears, are reduced to parts and parcels when facing it. It is the most genuine feeling that no forms of god-granted natural entities are able to imitate, embody or convey. It even creates distance within when one person is too emotional. One said that a man is brimmed with feelings that his face is blurred out like watercolor paintings.
I am a tourist striving or struggling to live in a queer world, you are the passersby who eager to put me under the magnifying glass as if I was an embryo but fail to catch a glimpse for I dissipate all of a sudden. We walk our lines like we know no one, although sometimes faces do seem familiar. However, next day when you realize the miss of something wonderful and you retrace the road in the vain hope to encounter it again, I am already out of this place, out in somewhere. And the still next day, we remain strangers again.
Before clearing off the above suspicions, I should first refer to how I visualize my journal; how I want my journal to be. A lonesome tourist wandering on a foreign territory- passersby sense something outlandish about this person but pay no heed to suss him out; that tourist, on the other hand, detects the queer nature of his surroundings yet refuses to slow down his pace and relish upon everything. The passersby and the tourist bump into each others multiple times in various occasions, every time with complete reticence. Two curved parallel lines they are walking about.
My scrawl matches the route the tourist traces, and you passersby judge me as if I was some drunkard drinking to his fill of alienation and zigzagging the way home. While frankly the destination is never a home, tourist gets accustomed to the idea of never traveling with a single aim, a sole intention. Nevertheless a well-trained tourist is not a nomad. He polishes himself squeaky clean before bracing every adventure.
Snags are met unexpectedly, and frustrations do exist. Here I see my tourist admiringly spare none of his grunts or ire. He simply puts those obstacles into his travel bag, in a suave fashion. He carries them on his back, bag bulges with something like stones. His back, slouched but never toppled over. Walking steadily with dignified steps, he is walking on the most hazardous road.
There is one thing that nothing can replace it. For art and music are too inarticulate. Words, while a stream of marvelous sayings do move anyone to tears, are reduced to parts and parcels when facing it. It is the most genuine feeling that no forms of god-granted natural entities are able to imitate, embody or convey. It even creates distance within when one person is too emotional. One said that a man is brimmed with feelings that his face is blurred out like watercolor paintings.
I am a tourist striving or struggling to live in a queer world, you are the passersby who eager to put me under the magnifying glass as if I was an embryo but fail to catch a glimpse for I dissipate all of a sudden. We walk our lines like we know no one, although sometimes faces do seem familiar. However, next day when you realize the miss of something wonderful and you retrace the road in the vain hope to encounter it again, I am already out of this place, out in somewhere. And the still next day, we remain strangers again.
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