Sometimes when a story is so powerfully fabricated, it horrifies you. This eventually leaves an imprint in your memory that galvanizes you whenever some evocations appear. The fact well-applies to a story I just finished reading, and a subsequent reference is drawn between the deserts in the story and the world I’m situated in. I hate to dredge up world-weariness when there are actually so many other things I can relate to. It is such a self-centered awareness to impose every story onto oneself.
So I will only make it brief by concluding that my conception of the world is like a desert where one is encompassed by hazards, and it is impossible for him to escape far since supplies must be begged first. But nobody will be that benevolent to lend you anything when every entity is on the fringe of demise in this dreadful desert. I tend to stay in one spot and shut up my mouth so I won’t be overcame by thirst too soon.
Most of the things I’ve read are abound with people. Vile bodies, goodie-two-shoes, repugnant braggadocios, irritable aficionados. A false belief I’ve held that those abject characters were only made alive in books. I was then disabused when they jumped out of the page and roamed around my everyday lives. The fictional characters can never be too repulsive after hindsight since you’ve already taken for granted the fact that they only live within words. Those in the reality perplex you, for they can be downright virile then peerlessly perfect in the blink of an eye. They make you want to kiss them before flaying them alive- the classic machinery of those notorious criminals.
I used to go to sleep at night wishing I was a worm the other day, and wishing I could return to my normal self the day after, and so on. Once weary of such cycle, I assumed a daily course choked with people was the main factor that induced my bewilderment. It is impossible to be too oblivious as a universalist. Everything I encountered I shoehorned into my little body. I became fervently volatile. The effect resulted on my writing, which is muddied with personal affairs and sentimentality.
This might be a curtain-off, but the trumpet bellows subsequently for another curtain-up. It is with much mulling-over that I will axe my Tales From the Down Under section, due to the fact that those later batch of entries were gradually bleeding into sheer poppycock. For my next entry I idealize of tending on a more thematic direction, which focuses on everything but me. The articles followed by should aptly be fit into a certain framework, instead of sprawling about desultorily. To give depth to a piece of writing, one should really wriggle his soul out of the body of a human flesh, and hopefully the entries I’m entering in the future can attest to the illusion that stranding on a desert does not mean life can be measured by your palmful of fleeting sand. We’re always surviving, no matter how much struggle and pain it can do us. But what scares us the most is how the desert is utterly ignorant of our existence. At night you stare into the infinite and a sheer nothingness sweeps over you, it neither beckons nor quivers.
But at the bottom of your heart you are certain that the desert speaks, although you find faults with identifying the voice and the words.