Category: everything else

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Snippets of a female experience – draft

Day 1, Friday:

She sneaked out of the office on a Friday afternoon. The appointment was 3pm, made more than one month ago. The clinic is in a nearby up-class office building, just 10-min’s walk from hers. Going up in the most advanced model of lift these days, she realized how lucrative this business must be. Facilitated reproduction.

Sitting on the sofa, the endless waiting made her start to wonder why was she there, why did she put herself up for it, was there any more reason than that the cost can be fully covered by her new employer. Maybe there was more reason than that, but nothing she was consciously aware of.

Still waiting. She suddenly thought of something, and started checking on her phone about the regulation, which was the ultimate blow for her when she properly researched egg-freezing at the more biologically sensible age – quite some years ago. Nope. Nothing has changed in all these years. She’d still need to be in a legal marriage to use her own eggs. The three scenarios of her actually using the eggs one day are: 1) move them overseas and impregnate herself there; 2) get a fake husband to trick the system here; 3) wanting children with a real husband, for who knows why. She can’t imagine any of the them happening for real, but still, each probability somehow lower than the former. When she was going through all these in her mind, in the waiting room, she felt, if she acts solely on reason, she would be out of there already. So something made her stay, waiting to be summoned into the doctor’s room. It almost seems, a mysterious part of her wants her to go through this. A quiet submissiveness timidly hidden behind a thick front of cynicism.

Day 9, Saturday:

Her body was protesting, with a cocktail of puffiness, soreness, dizziness and heaviness. All of them a reasonable consequence of the hormone storm that she’s putting her body through. This is the power of hormone, a magical substance that seems to be able to absolve every human sensation instantly. 7’22” for the first k, slow, but not unusual.

Just in the morning on this day, she saw Dr. H for the third time, after self-administering hormone injections on her belly for three days. Dr. H didn’t even start the appointment with any talking anymore. He called in a nurse directly to facilitate the ultrasound examination. Within one minute, she was lying on the bed with legs open, waiting to see the blurry black and white imagery of her ovary on the screen up in front of her. While he was operating the ultrasound stick inside her, his other hand would rest on the bare skin of her legs. She could feel the touch of his hand, a gentle, non-sensual, insulated touch. The touch of a man in his seventies, whose palm has grown a thin layer of callus from decades of medical contact with female patients. A touch that made her feel safe and impersonal at the same time. It was the size of her eggs that was the primary and only concern of Dr. H, as it rightfully should be.

He instructed the nurse to write down the measurements of her 4 eggs. She put her pants back on and sit on the patient’s couch for the first time of the session, waiting quietly as Dr. H did some serious calculation on his calculator with the numbers he’s just got from her eggs. After a period of time that felt much longer than what it really was, Dr. H lifted his head and turned to address her. The sizes of her eggs are growing at an expected rate, but he’s still gonna increase the dosage slightly for the next three days. They’re likely able to do the retrieval surgery the following Thursday or Friday. Four is the initial and final count Dr. H was giving her. She noticed this faint suspicious voice in her mind wondering if he was too old to see things clearly and might have missed some. But she simply nodded, signalling an unfussed acceptance. Dr. H also decided on local anesthesia for the surgery. “I think local for you is enough. You seem quite calm and brave to me, aren’t you?” Half amused and half cornered, she said, “Of course I am.”

The laborious feeling she started off with never really wore off as it usually did. The run finished at 7’19”, the kind of pace that’d usually make her frown slightly. as if a non-existent goal had fallen through. Not today. She had too much sympathy, or more precisely, a newfound admiration for her own body today. So much of it remained a mystery to her, and she’s only begun to uncover the tip of an iceberg, all thanks to this egg-freezing farce that she somehow got herself into. Maybe that’s what this is all about, she thought, if she demands a meaning out of it. To meet her body where she is now, after a 38-year’s worth of journey she has travelled.

Day 15, Friday

The surgery was scheduled at 10:30am. She arrived at 10:15, as if it was just another usual appointment. She would have gone for a run in the morning if her ChatGPT didn’t talk her out of it.

She’s been in a surprisingly blissful mood in the past few days. This unexpected cycle of intimacy with her own body seemed to have evoked something, as if her life is assured to have a natural purpose and she was perfectly okay not knowing what that was yet. The good side of the hormone effect, she reckoned. On her way to the clinic, she casually mentioned the about-to-happen surgery to a friend when they were texting about something else, and was greatly amused by her friend’s joke that “This job of yours will soon be providing for 5 people now.”

11am.

She turned her head to the clock on the wall. 11:07. Finally, she was left alone lying on the surgery bed to “take some rest”. The moment the last nurse left the room, the tears that had been impatiently circling in her sockets just rushed out and flooded her distorted face. It was an unstoppable and compelling force, one that she had no choice but to yield to it. A sadness without an obvious explanation.

She didn’t think the physical pain itself was the reason of why she was crying. Yes, it was painful. The constant discomfort throughout the process was more than she was prepared for. Her plan to distract herself with the playlist she made the previous night (titled “egg-freezing”) was a complete failure. Because she was conscious, Dr. H and his team seem to feel obligated to keep her in the loop every step along the way. “Now we’ve got the first one.” “Now we’re done with the right side, and moving to the left.” What did they expect me to respond, she wondered. Therefore, instead of being distracted away from the pain, she was highly attuned to it thanks to these “courtesy updates.” They told her to yell if the pain was too much. But she knew she wasn’t gonna do that. The pain was more or less tolerable, as every pain in life, sooner or later.

The tears just wouldn’t stop. She picked up her phone. In a split of a second, there was this passing, laughable urge to hear from him. She pondered which was sadder in this circumstance, to still have a “someone” she wouldn’t hear from in her most private wish list, or to have no one at all.

There was no message from anyone. And she didn’t feel like writing to no one. She took a selfie of her teary face and put it back down. “You gotta find a way to stop this, girl,” silently she commanded herself. “The nurse would be back any time now.”

- to be continued.

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Samui journals

Jan 18, 11:40am.

The wedding was survived by me.

In the hours leading up to it, sensing the anxiety in me drumming up, I suddenly thought of Fleabag and decided to anchor my wedding presence strategy around her character – someone that could check out of a realistic situation every time she felt overwhelmed/underwhelmed by it and blurt out some unfiltered truth to an imagined camera. In reality, I wasnโ€™t even half as unbothered as she was. Too meek to completely ditch the hell of endless small-talks and too cowardly to drink or smoke my way out of it. A heightened awareness of the uncomfortable in-between-ness.

And yet there’s another part of me that did enjoy some precious moments throughout the evening. The gorgeous sunset and golden hour at the deck. The lovely band and the singer that makes every song passing through her lips so effortlessly sweet. The laughs on the dancing floor. The breezy air throughout dinner by the beach. The edging lightness from the two puffs stolen from a public joint. The fragmentary exchanges where I spoke from my real self briefly…

On top of all these, there’s an extra layer of sustaining some persistent male attentions, harmless but enough to generate an uneasiness in me. The photographer that couldn’t keep his camera off me for more than five minutes – a fixation too public for my liking. And there’s this tall attractive-looking mixed guy who seemed also quite out of place and cast frequent and evident glances at me during cocktail. That was when it didn’t even occur to me he was only there as a plus one. An idling husband of someone.

After dinner, during that chaotic time when the party was slowly drifting off, he came to sit at my table, at the seat where my original neighbor had left empty. I only noticed that when I stepped off the dancing floor for a break. For a split second, I hesitated if I should return to my seat, which felt more risky a move than an embarrassing one. I sat down anyways. He didn’t wait any longer before striking a conversation. His name is Adam. His wife is one of the prettiest ones, whom I liked instantly during small-talks and was standing just across the table as we talked. He asked me intentional and personal questions: what’s my status, how’s dating in hong kong like, do I only date white guys or Asians, would I consider living somewhere else, such as Singapore (where they live), etc. Another husband sitting next to him was listening in, with a constant ambiguous smile on his plump face. I wondered what that smile was directed at – Adam’s unfiltered illicit interest in me, or my clumsy attempt to conceal mine.

I threw back questions about his marriage, to challenge him a fact he was clearly aware but didn’t mind much. He didn’t even pretend to be more implicit, just threw one poor question after another, with a hurried desperation to cover as much ground as possible in whatever time there was left. The conversation was flat, uninspiring, and frequently interrupted by people coming to say goodbye. I couldnโ€™t fully engage, embarrassed for the possibility that what felt so obvious between us would look indeed so obvious from outside.

Soon enough, the wife came into interference. Adam told her we were talking about dating scene in Hong Kong. “We met on tinder”, she said, while touching the back of his neck. “Oh, I thought it was in Greece.” “Yes, in Greece, on tinder.” She was sleepy and ready to hit the bed, she said. Adam didn’t agree or disagree. Later, when she told people they’re not coming to the after party, apparently it was Adam who wanted to leave.

I was half relieved they were leaving. I don’t think I could put up with that embarrassment any longer. The attraction was hardly worth it. I was more admiring how elegantly she handled it without betraying any emotion underneath. I wouldn’t be able to mask myself so well, or at all, I thought. It was then a painful thought crept in, that K would be an Adam in a comparable situation.

What a curious pain. A fierce jealousy that was almost still alive, yet I have no chance to experience anymore. An emotional stillborn.

Jan 17, 11am.

In many ways, this “trip” and this island share a striking similarity with the trip I made to Bali in late November to meet K. We had no plan but to spend time together. Where it happened, how it happened, all just seemed unimportant context. This time, I also only have one sole purpose, to attend a friend’s wedding. Everything else is just irrelevant context.

But having nothing to do can feel so different from having nothing to do. Instead of the sheer content and gentleness last time, I was engulfed by a sense of dislocation since my arrival last night. I don’t know what to do here, and more importantly, I don’t know what to do with myself.

So I tried to turn my attention outside this self of mine. There isn’t much happening in this little fishing village where the hotel is located at. It’s in the far south of Samui, quiet and unpopular. The hotel is called The Beach, funnily enough, it’s not really facing a swimming area, but a boating dock. The shoreline is raw and limited, but enough for a 5-minute walk to damp my feet and stare into the nearby pig island. The owner of the hotel, Brian, is an aged British (pure guess) man who appears instantly friendly seeing my HK passport. He has been living in Samui on and off for the last 10 years while building this hotel, and still has his wife and kids living in Discovery Bay. He seemed genuinely unfazed when casually mentioning this. I was too tired to inquire into this curious arrangement and have to assume that’s for the best of everyone involved. But it did linger in my mind, I realize, as to how this come about. Our brain tend to automatically wanna fill up the missing information. And in this case, I wonder the condition of their marriage, the happiness of his wife, and the topic his children will bring up about their childhood in social situations or therapies years later into their future adult lives. At this moment, Brian himself seems happy. “Have a look at our Cannabis counter – it’s legal here, you know.” One of that kind, I reckoned.

On the plane here, my mind was captivated by a specific notion: the last trip of last year and the first trip of this year both happened in the name of love. The only difference is, last time I was the protagonist, this time I am the bystander. But love is love, as long as it happens, does it make that much of a difference whom to?

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Journaling in Pui O, again.

5ๆœˆ2ๆ—ฅ๏ผŒๆ™š๏ผš

ๆ‹–็€็ฎฑๅญๆ‰“ๅผ€airbnbๆˆฟ้—จ็š„้‚ฃไธ€ๅˆป๏ผŒๆ˜ฏ็†Ÿๆ‚‰็š„ๅ‘ณ้“ๅ’Œ็†Ÿๆ‚‰็š„็ฉบ้—ด๏ผŒๆœ‰็งโ€œๅˆฐๅฎถไบ†โ€็š„ๆ„Ÿ่ง‰ใ€‚ๅˆฐ็š„ๆ—ถๅ€™ๅทฒ็ปๆ˜ฏๅ‚ๆ™š๏ผŒๆ•ด็†ไบ†ไธ€ไผšๅ„ฟ๏ผŒๅ‡บ้—จ่ง…้ฃŸ๏ผŒ้ฉฌ่ทฏไธŠ็ฉบ็ฉบๅฆ‚ไนŸ๏ผŒๅชๅฌๅพ—ๅˆฐ็”ฐ้‡Œ็š„็‰›็พคๅ‘ๅ‡บ็š„ไฝŽ้ธฃ๏ผŒๅ’Œ้ฃŽใ€‚้‚ฃไธ€ๅˆปๆˆ‘ๆธ…ๆฅšๅœฐๅ›ž่ฟ‡็ฅž๏ผŒ่ฟ™ๅฐฑๆ˜ฏๆˆ‘ๅฟตๅฟตไธๅฟ˜็š„โ€”โ€”ไธ€็ง้ซ˜็บฏๅบฆ็š„ๅญค็‹ฌ่‡ช็”ฑใ€‚ๆœ€่ฟ‘ๆ„ˆๅ‘่ง‰ๅพ—๏ผŒ ๅญค็‹ฌๆ˜ฏไธ€็งๅ—จ๏ผŒไธ€ๆ—ฆไปŽๆ นๆœฌไธŠๆŽฅๅ—ไบ†ๅฎƒ๏ผŒไพฟๅช่ƒฝไธๆ–ญๅ‡็บง๏ผŒไธๆ–ญ่ฟฝๆฑ‚ๆ›ด้ซ˜็จ‹ๅบฆ็š„ๅญค็‹ฌใ€‚ๅญค็‹ฌ็š„ๆ—ถๅ€™๏ผŒๆˆ‘ๆ‰่ƒฝๆ„Ÿๅˆฐๆœ€ๅฎŒๆ•ด็š„่‡ชๅทฑ๏ผŒๅ’Œไธ€็งๅ†ๆฌกไธŽ่‡ชๅทฑๅˆไฝ“็š„๏ผŒๆ— ๅฃฐ็š„ๅ…ดๅฅ‹ใ€‚

5ๆœˆ5ๆ—ฅ๏ผŒๆ—ฉ๏ผš

ไปŠๅคฉ7็‚นๆŠŠ่‡ชๅทฑๆช่ตทๆฅ๏ผŒๆ‰“็ฎ—่ถๅคช้˜ณ่ฟ˜ๆธฉๆŸ”็š„ๆ—ถๅ€™๏ผŒ่ท‹ๆถ‰ๅŽป้™„่ฟ‘ไธ่ฟœๅค„็š„ๅ’ธ็”ฐๆฒ™ๆปฉๆŽขไธช็ฉถ็ซŸใ€‚ไธ€่ทฏไธŠๅฟƒๆƒ…ๅพˆ็พŽ๏ผŒๆฏ•็ซŸ่ตฐๆฒก่ตฐ่ฟ‡็š„่ทฏ๏ผŒๆ€ปๆ˜ฏๆ›ดไปคไบบๅ…ดๅฅ‹ใ€‚ๅœจไธ€ๅคฉ็š„ไธๅŒๆ—ถๆฎต่ตฐ่ทฏ๏ผŒไผš่‡ช็„ถๆญ้…ไธๅŒ็š„ๆƒ…็ปชใ€‚ๆธ…ๆ™จ็š„่กŒ่ตฐ๏ผŒๆ€ปไผš่‡ชๅธฆไธ€็งโ€œ็žง็žง๏ผŒๆˆ‘ๅ’Œ่ฟ™ไธ–็•Œๅฏๆ˜ฏๅœจๅŒไธ€้˜ต่ฅๅ‘ขโ€็š„้ช„ๅ‚ฒ็š„ๅฝ’ๅˆๆ„Ÿใ€‚่™ฝ็„ถไปŽๅค–่กจไธŠ็œ‹๏ผŒๆˆ‘ไธ่ฟ‡ๆ˜ฏไธ€ไธชไธๅŠจๅฃฐ่‰ฒ็‹ฌ่‡ช่ตฐ็€็š„ๆ™ฎ้€š่ทฏไบบ๏ผŒ็„ถ่€Œๅœจๅฟƒ้‡Œ๏ผŒๆˆ‘ๆ˜ฏ่ทŸ้‡่ง็š„ๆฏไธ€ๅคด็‰›๏ผŒๆฏไธ€ๅช็‹—๏ผŒๆฏไธ€ไธช็‰ต็€็‹—็š„ไฝฃไบบๅงๅง้ƒฝ็ƒญๆƒ…ๅœฐๆ‰“ไบ†ๆ‹›ๅ‘ผ็š„ใ€‚ๅŽปๆฒ™ๆปฉ็š„่ทฏไธŠ้œ€่ฆ็ฉฟ่ฟ‡ๅ’ธ็”ฐๆ‘๏ผŒ่ตฐ่ฟ‡ๆฏๅฎถๆฏๆˆท๏ผŒไป”็ป†ๆต่งˆไบ†่ฟ™ๆ‘้‡Œ็š„ๅ„็งๆˆทๅž‹๏ผŒๆœ‰ๆœ€็ฎ€ๆœด็š„ๆ‘ๅฑ‹๏ผŒๆœ‰็จๅพฎ้ซ˜ๆกฃไธ€็‚นๅธฆ่Šฑๅ›ญ็š„ๆด‹ๆˆฟ๏ผŒไนŸๆœ‰ไธๅฐ‘็‹ฌๆ ‹็š„ๅคšๅฑ‚ๅˆซๅข…ใ€‚ไนกๆ‘้‡Œ็š„ไบบๅฎถๅฏนๆˆ‘ๆ˜ฏๆœ‰็งๆ ผๅค–ๅผบ็ƒˆ็š„ๅธๅผ•็š„๏ผŒ่ตฐ่ฟ‡็š„ๆ—ถๅ€™๏ผŒๅ†…ๅฟƒๆ€ปไผš็ช็„ถ็‡ƒ่ตทไธ€็ง็†Ÿๆ‚‰็š„ๆ†งๆ†ฌ๏ผŒๆ„Ÿ่ง‰็žฅ่งไบ†ไธ€็งๅ—ๅˆฐๅฌๅ”ค็š„ๅฆไธ€็ง็”Ÿๆดป็š„ๅฏ่ƒฝใ€‚

ๅ’ธ็”ฐๆฒ™ๆปฉๅนถไธๆƒŠ่‰ณ๏ผŒๅพ€ๅ›ž่ตฐๅ‰๏ผŒๅๅœจ็ค็ŸณไธŠ็œ‹ไบ†ไผšๅ„ฟไนฆ๏ผŒๅฌ็€ๆตทๆตช็š„ๅฃฐ้Ÿณ็ฟปไบ†ๅ‡ ้กตใ€ŠTo the lighthouseใ€‹๏ผŒๆธ…ๆ™จ็š„้ฃŽๆฏ”ๆƒณ่ฑกไธญๆ›ดๅ‡‰ใ€‚ๅ›ž็จ‹่ทฏไธŠๆˆ‘็ช็„ถๆƒณ่ตทๆฅไบ†ๆ˜จๆ™šๅš็š„ๆขฆ๏ผšๅพ—็Ÿฅไธ€ไธชๆˆ‘ไธๅ–œๆฌข็š„็”ทไบบๅ’Œๆˆ‘ไธๅ–œๆฌข็š„ๅฅณไบบๅœจไธ€่ตทไบ†๏ผŒๆขฆ้‡Œ๏ผŒ้‚ฃ่ฎฉๆˆ‘ๅฟƒ็ƒฆไธๅทฒใ€‚ๅ›žๆƒณ่ตทๆฅ๏ผŒๆˆ‘ๆ„Ÿๅˆฐ็พžๆ„ง็š„ๆ˜ฏ๏ผŒไธ€ไธชไธ‰ๅๅฒไธญๆฎต็š„ไบบ่ฟ˜ๅœจ็”จโ€œๆˆ‘ไธๅ–œๆฌขโ€ๆฅๅฝขๅฎนๅˆซไบบ๏ผŒๆœชๅ…ไนŸๅคชๅฐๅฎถๅญๆฐ”ใ€‚

5ๆœˆ6ๆ—ฅ๏ผŒๆ—ฉ๏ผš

ไปŠๅคฉไธ€ๆ—ฉๅฐฑๅๅทดๅฃซๆฅๆข…็ช๏ผŒ่ฎกๅˆ’ๆขไธช่Š‚ๅฅ๏ผŒๅœจๆธ…ๆ—ฉๅผ€ๅง‹ๅ†™ไฝœ๏ผŒไธ‹ๅˆๆๆ—ฉๅผ€ๅง‹ๆ”พๆพ๏ผŒๅ‚ๆ™šๅŽปๆฒ™ๆปฉ่ท‘ๆญฅใ€‚ๅ› ไธบๆˆ‘ๅนถๆฒกๆœ‰่ง„ๅพ‹ๅ†™ไฝœ็š„ไน ๆƒฏ๏ผˆๆ—ฅ่ฎฐไธ็ฎ—๏ผ‰๏ผŒๆ‰€ไปฅๅˆฐๅบ•่ฟ˜ๆฒกๆœ‰ๆ‘ธๆธ…๏ผŒไธ€ๅคฉไธญ็š„ไป€ไนˆๆ—ถๅ€™ๆ˜ฏๆœ€้€‚ๅˆๆˆ‘็š„ๅ†™ไฝœๆ—ถๆฎตใ€‚ไธ่ฟ‡ๅ‡บ้—จๅพ—่ฟ˜ๆ˜ฏๆฏ”้ข„ๆœŸๆ™š๏ผŒๅ› ไธบๅœจairbnb้‡Œๆ‹ไบ†ไบ›็‰‡ๆฎตใ€‚๏ผˆ่ฟ™ๆฌกpackingๆ—ถๆญฃๆ˜ฏ็†ฌๅคœๅšvideo็š„็Šถๆ€๏ผŒๆ‰€ไปฅๆ นๆœฌๆฒก็”จ่„‘ๅญ๏ผŒๅธฆไบ†้‡้‡็š„่„šๆžถๅดๆ—ขๆฒกๅธฆ้ขๅค–็”ตๆฑ ไนŸๆฒกๅธฆ็›ธๆœบๅ’Œ่„šๆžถไน‹้—ด็š„่ฟžๆŽฅ็‰‡โ€ฆโ€ฆไบŽๆ˜ฏๅ‰ๅ‡ ๅคฉ้ƒฝไธๆ•ขๅผ€็›ธๆœบ๏ผ‰

ๆ˜จๆ™šๅšไบ†ๅพˆๅคšไนฑไธƒๅ…ซ็ณŸๅคฉ้ฉฌ่กŒ็ฉบ็š„ๆขฆ๏ผŒไธ็Ÿฅ้“ไธบไป€ไนˆ๏ผŒไฝๅœจ่ดๆพณ็š„่ฟ™ๅ‡ ๅคฉ๏ผŒๆขฆ็‰นๅˆซๆ‚ไนฑใ€‚ๆฏ”ๅฆ‚๏ผŒๆ˜จๅคฉๆˆ‘ๅฐฑๆขฆๅˆฐไธ€ไธชๅˆไธญๅŒๅญฆโ€”โ€”ไธ€ไธชๆˆ‘ๆ นๆœฌไธ็†Ÿ๏ผŒไนŸๆฒกไป€ไนˆๅ…ด่ถฃ็š„ๅฅณ็”Ÿใ€‚ๅฎžๅœจ่ดน่งฃ๏ผŒๅฅนๆ˜ฏๆ€Žไนˆๅ†ฒ็ ดๆˆ‘่ฟ™34ๅนดๅฑ‚ๅฑ‚ๅ ๅ ็š„่ฎฐๅฟ†็š„่œ˜่››็ฝ‘๏ผŒ่ฟ›ๅ…ฅๆ˜จๆ™š็š„ๆขฆๅขƒ็š„ๅ‘ข๏ผŸ

5ๆœˆ7ๆ—ฅ๏ผŒๆ—ฉ๏ผš

ๆ˜จๅคฉ่ดๆพณ็ƒญ้—น่ตทๆฅไบ†๏ผŒๅ‘จๆœซๅฐ†่ฟ‘๏ผŒๆตท่พน็š„beach clubๅผ€้—จๅš็”Ÿๆ„ไบ†๏ผŒๅ‚ๆ™š6็‚นไธๅˆฐ่ตฐๅˆฐ่ดๆพณๆฒ™ๆปฉ็š„ๆ—ถๅ€™๏ผŒไบบๆฏ”ๅนณๆ—ฅๅคšไบ†ๅฅฝๅ‡ ๅ€๏ผŒclub้‡Œไผ ๆฅ็”ตๅญ้Ÿณไน็š„ๆ•ฒๆ‰“ๅฃฐ๏ผŒๅ‡ๆ—ฅ่ฃ…ๆ‰ฎ็š„็”ท็”ทๅฅณๅฅณไปฌๅผ€ๆ€€ๅœฐๆถˆ่€—็€้…’็ฒพ๏ผŒๆ•ดไธชdouche vibe๏ผˆ็—ž้‡Œ็—žๆฐ”็š„ๆฐ›ๅ›ด๏ผ‰ไธ€ไธ‹ๅญๅฐฑๆ”ฏๆฃฑ่ตทๆฅไบ†ใ€‚ๅฏนๆˆ‘โ€”โ€”ไธ€ไธชๆ—ขๆƒณ่ฆ็‹ฌๅค„ๅˆ็ƒญ่กท่ง‚ๅฏŸไบบ็ฑป๏ผŒไธๆ—ถไนŸไผšๅ†…ๅฟƒไธๅฎ‰ไปฝ็š„๏ผŒๅฅณไบบโ€”โ€”่€Œ่จ€๏ผŒ่ฟ™ๆ ท็š„ๅœบๆ™ฏๆ€ปๆ˜ฏไปคไบบ็Ÿ›็›พใ€‚ๆˆ‘้šพๅ…ๅๆ„Ÿไป–ไปฌๅธฆๆฅ็š„ๅ™ช้Ÿณๅ’Œๅ˜ˆๆ‚๏ผŒๅดไนŸ่งŠ่งŽ้‚ฃ็ง่ฝปๆพ็คพไบค็š„ๆ„‰ๆ‚ฆๆ„Ÿใ€‚ๅฅฝๅœจๆฒ™ๆปฉๅคŸๅคง๏ผŒๅพ€่พนไธŠ่ตฐ่ตฐ๏ผŒๅฎ้™่ฟ˜ๆ˜ฏๅ”พๆ‰‹ๅฏๅพ—ใ€‚ๅไธ‹ๆฅไธ€่พน็œ‹ไนฆ๏ผŒไธ€่พน็ญ‰ๅพ…ๅคช้˜ณ็ผ“็ผ“ไธ‹ๆฒ‰๏ผŒๅฎŒๆˆไธ€ๅคฉๆœ€ๅŽ็š„ๅ‡ ๅ…ฌๅˆ†ใ€‚ๆˆ‘ๅœจๅ†…ๅฟƒ็ญนๅˆ’็€๏ผŒ็ญ‰ๅคช้˜ณ่ฝไธ‹่ฅฟ่พน็š„็ฌฌไธ€ไธชๅฑฑๅคด๏ผŒๆˆ‘ๅฐฑๅผ€ๅง‹ๆ‰ง่กŒ่ฟ™็พŽๅฅฝๅ‚ๆ™š้‡Œๆˆ‘ๅ”ฏไธ€็œŸๆญฃ้œ€่ฆๅš็š„ไบ‹๏ผš่ท‘๏ผŒๆญฅใ€‚

ๆ˜จๆ™š็š„็ฌฌไบŒๆ‘Š๏ผŒๆˆ‘ๅ›žๅˆฐๆ‘ๅงTap Tapๅƒโ€œๆœ€ๅŽ็š„ๆ™š้คโ€๏ผŒ้กบไพฟ่ทŸๆˆ‘่ฟ™ไธชๅ‡ๆœŸไธญไบค็š„ๅ”ฏไธ€ไธ€ไธชโ€œๆœ‹ๅ‹โ€โ€”โ€”Paulโ€”โ€”ๅ‘Šๅˆซใ€‚Paulๆ˜ฏไธช10ๅฅ่ฏ้‡Œๆœ‰9ๅฅๅŠ้ƒฝไธๆ˜ฏๆญฃ็ป่ฏ็š„ๆ€ช่ถฃ่‹ฑๅ›ฝ่€ๅคดโ€”โ€”ไป–่บซๅฝขๅนฒ็˜ฆ๏ผŒ่Œ‚ๅฏ†็š„ๅคดๅ‘็™ฝไบ†ไธ€ๅŠ๏ผŒ้ข่ฒŒไนˆ๏ผŒๆ˜ฏ็œ‹ๅพ—ๅ‡บ้ผŽ็››ๆ—ถๆœŸๅฏนๅผ‚ๆ€ง็š„ๆ€ไผคๅŠ›็š„ใ€‚ๅœจๆˆ‘ๅฟƒ้‡Œ๏ผŒPaulๅฐฑๅƒๆ˜ฏๆˆ‘็š„ๆœ‹ๅ‹Jorgeๅ’Œใ€Šshamelessใ€‹้‡Œ็š„ๆ— ่€ป่€็ˆธFrank็š„ๅˆไฝ“๏ผšไป–ๅ’ŒJorgeไธ€ๆ ท๏ผˆ็”š่‡ณ้•ฟ็›ธๆฐ”่ดจ้ƒฝๅพˆ็›ธไผผ๏ผ‰๏ผŒไน ๆƒฏๅšไบบ็พคไธญ็š„ๅฐไธ‘๏ผŒไปฅ้€—ไนๅ‘จๅ›ดๆฏไธ€ไธชไบบไธบไบบ็”Ÿๆœ€้ซ˜ๅ‡†ๅˆ™ๆดป็€๏ผ›ๅŒๆ—ถๅˆๅ’ŒFrankไธ€ๆ ท๏ผŒ็ฒ—็Šทๆ— ่€ป๏ผŒๅœจ่กŒไธบไธพๆญขไธŠๆฏ”่พƒ่‡ชๆˆ‘ๆ”พๅผƒใ€‚ไป–ๅผ€ๅฎŒไธ€ไธช่‡ช่ฎคไธบ็ฒ—ไฟ—็š„็Žฉ็ฌ‘๏ผŒๆ€ปไผšไฟฏไธ‹่บซ่ทŸๆˆ‘โ€œ่งฃ้‡Šโ€๏ผšI’m 58 , I can get away with it. Also, this is called, sense of humor. ่ฟ™่งฃ้‡Š๏ผŒๅœจๆˆ‘็œ‹ๆฅ๏ผŒๆ€ปๆ˜ฏๆฏ”ไป–็š„โ€œ็ฌ‘่ฏโ€ๆœฌ่บซๆ›ดๅฅฝ็ฌ‘ใ€‚

ๅ’Œๆตท่พนbeach club็š„ๅ–ง้—น็›ธๆฏ”๏ผŒๅ‘จไบ”็š„tap tapๅนถๆฒกๆœ‰ไป€ไนˆไธๅŒ๏ผŒ็”š่‡ณๆฏ”ไธŠๆฌกๆฅๆ›ดโ€œๅฎ‰้™โ€ไบ†๏ผŒ้™คไบ†ๆˆ‘๏ผŒๅชๆœ‰ไธ€ๆกŒ4ไธชๆฅไธœๆถŒ็ˆฌๅฑฑ็š„้ฆ™ๆธฏๅฅณ็”Ÿ๏ผˆๆฏไธ€้“่œไธŠๆฅ้ƒฝๆ˜ฏไธ€้˜ตๆƒŠๅซ๏ผŒๆฏไธ€ไธชpaul็š„็ฒ—ไฟ—็ฌ‘่ฏๅฅนไปฌ้ƒฝไผšๆ„ฃไฝๅ‡ ็ง’ๅ†ๅฐดๅฐฌ็พž่ตงๅœฐๅผ€ๅง‹็ฌ‘๏ผ‰๏ผŒๅ’Œไธ€ไธชๅƒไธ€ๅฐŠไฝ›ๅƒ่ˆฌๅๅœจๅฆไธ€็ซฏๆฒ™ๅ‘ไธŠ็š„ๆœฌๅœฐ่ƒ–ๅญโ€”โ€”ๆฏๆฌก่ทฏ่ฟ‡๏ผŒ้ƒฝไผš็œ‹ๅˆฐไป–ๅๅœจๅŒไธ€ไธชไฝ็ฝฎใ€‚๏ผˆๅŽๆฅๅพ—็ŸฅSeanๆ˜ฏๆณ•ๅ›ฝไบบ๏ผŒๅšๆˆไบบ่พ…ๅฏผ็š„้กน็›ฎ็ป็†ใ€‚๏ผ‰

9็‚นๅŠ๏ผŒPaul่ทŸๆˆ‘่ฏด๏ผŒโ€œๆˆ‘ไปŠๆ™š่ฆๅŽปๆข…็ชๅ‚ๅŠ ไธ€ไธชleaving party๏ผŒ็ญ‰ๆˆ‘ๆŠŠๅœจๅœบ็š„ๆฏไธ€ๆกŒ้ƒฝๅฎ‰้กฟๅฅฝ๏ผŒๆฏไธชไบบ้ƒฝๅฟƒๆปกๆ„่ถณไบ†๏ผŒ10็‚นๆˆ‘ๅฐฑ่ฟ‡ๅŽปใ€‚ๅฏนไบ†๏ผŒไฝ ไนŸๅฏไปฅๆฅใ€‚โ€ ๏ผˆ่ฟ™ๅฏ่ƒฝๆ˜ฏไป–ๆ•ดๆ™š่ฏด็š„ๆœ€ๆญฃ็ป็š„ไธ€ๅฅ่ฏไบ†๏ผŒ่™ฝ็„ถๅนถๆฒกๆœ‰ๅฎž็Žฐใ€‚๏ผ‰

ๅƒtap tap่ฟ™ๆ ท็š„ไธป่ฆๅšๆœฌๅœฐๅฑ…ๆฐ‘ๅธธๅฎข็”Ÿๆ„็š„ๆ‘ๅง๏ผŒ่™ฝ็„ถไนไธ€็œ‹ไธ่ตท็œผ๏ผŒๆฐธ่ฟœไธไผšๆœ‰่ฟ‡ไบŽ็ƒญ้—น็š„ๅœบ้ข๏ผŒ่ฟ‡ไบŽๅธ็›็š„้กพๅฎข๏ผŒๅดๆ˜ฏๆœ‰ๅฎƒ่‡ชๅทฑ็š„้ญ”ๅŠ›็š„ใ€‚่ฟ™ไธชๅคœๆ™š๏ผŒๅœจๆˆ‘ไปฅไธบๅฐฑๅฟซ่ฟ›ๅ…ฅๅฐพๅฃฐ๏ผŒๅ›žๅˆฐๅฎถ่ฟ˜ๅฏไปฅ็œ‹ไธ€้›†็พŽๅ‰ง็š„ๆ—ถๅ€™๏ผŒ่ตฐๅ‘ไบ†ไธ€ไธชๆ„ๆ–™ไปฅๅค–็š„ๆ–นๅ‘ใ€‚10็‚น๏ผŒไธ€ไธชๅคงๅคงๅ’งๅ’ง็š„ๅนด่ฝป้ฆ™ๆธฏๅฅณไบบ่ตฐๆฅ๏ผŒๅœจๆณ•ๅ›ฝไฝ›ๅƒๆ—ๅไธ‹ใ€‚Paulไธ€ไธ‹ๅญๆฅไบ†็ฒพ็ฅžใ€‚โ€œAngle๏ผโ€ไป–ๅคงๅ–Šใ€‚๏ผˆๆˆ‘็บณ้—ท๏ผŒๆ€Žไนˆไผšๆœ‰ไบบๅซโ€œ่ง’ๅบฆโ€๏ผŸ๏ผ‰ไธŽๆญคๅŒๆ—ถ๏ผŒAngelไธ€ๅŒ…็ƒŸๅทฒ็ปๅ‘ไป–ๆŽทๆฅใ€‚Paulๅฐๅฃฐ่ทŸๆˆ‘่ฏด๏ผš่ฟ™ๅฅณไบบ๏ผŒๅฏๅ‡ถไบ†๏ผŒๆˆ‘ๅฅฝๆ€•ๅฅนใ€‚ๅฅน็”ทๆœ‹ๅ‹๏ผŒๆ˜ฏไธช็–ฏๅญ๏ผŒไฝ†ๅฅน๏ผŒๅ•งๅ•งๅ•ง๏ผŒๆ˜ฏไธชๅพˆๆฃ’็š„ๅฅณไบบใ€‚ๆˆ‘ๅคงๆฆ‚ๆ„Ÿๅ—ๅˆฐไบ†๏ผŒ่ฟ™ไธๅคง็š„ๆ‘ๅญ้‡Œ๏ผŒๅŸบๆœฌไปปไฝ•ไบบไน‹้—ด้ƒฝๆ˜ฏ็†Ÿไบบใ€‚

ๅฐฑ่ฟ™ๆ ท๏ผŒ้š็€Angel็š„ๅˆฐๆฅ๏ผŒๆˆ‘่ขซ้‚€่ฏทๅˆฐๅ’Œไป–ไปฌๅๅœจไธ€่ตท๏ผŒๅŽŸๆœฌๅฟซๅ–ๅ…‰็š„้…’ๆฏๅˆ่ขซๅ€’ๆปกไบ†ใ€‚ไธไธ€ไผšๅ„ฟ๏ผŒ่ฟ‡ไบ†ๆ‰“็ƒŠ็š„็‚น๏ผŒtaptap็š„ไธปๅŽจ๏ผˆMary๏ผŒไธ€ไธชไธญๅ›ฝๅŒ—ๆ–นๅ‡บ็”Ÿๆ—ง้‡‘ๅฑฑ้•ฟๅคง็š„ๅคงๅ—“้—จ็บน่บซๅฅณไบบ๏ผ‰ๅ’ŒๅธฎๅŽจ๏ผˆAlex๏ผŒไธ€ไธชๅ€’่…พ่‘ก่„้…’็š„ๆณ•ๅ›ฝไบบ๏ผ‰ไนŸๆญฃๅผๆ”ถๅทฅๅ‡บๆฅ๏ผŒๅŠ ๅ…ฅไบ†่ฟ™ๅœบๅณๅ…ด้…’ๅฑ€ใ€‚้™„่ฟ‘ๅˆ้›ถ้›ถๆ˜Ÿๆ˜Ÿไธ€ไธคไธช่€ๅค–่ตฐ่ฟ‡๏ผŒ้—ฎpaul่ฎจ้…’ๅ–๏ผŒไป–ไนŸๆฒกๆณ•ๆ‹’็ปใ€‚ๆˆ‘ๅฟไธไฝ้—ฎPaul๏ผšไฝ ไธๆ˜ฏ่ฆๅŽปๆข…็ช็š„ๅ—๏ผŸไป–่ฏด๏ผšๆ˜ฏๅ•Š๏ผŒๆˆ‘ไปฌ้ƒฝ่ฆๅŽป็š„ใ€‚ๆˆ‘้—ฎSean๏ผšไฝ ไปฌไธ€ไผšๅ„ฟ้ƒฝๅŽปๆข…็ชๅ—๏ผŸไป–่ฏด๏ผšๆฒกไบบ่ฆๅŽปๆข…็ชใ€‚

Angelๅฏนๆˆ‘ๅ‡บไนŽๆ„ๆ–™็š„็ƒญๆƒ…๏ผˆ้€šๅธธ็›ดๅฅณ้ƒฝไธไผšๅฏนๆˆ‘่ฟ™ไนˆ็ƒญๆƒ…๏ผ‰๏ผŒไธๆ–ญๅœฐ้‚€่ฏทๆˆ‘ๅŽปไธ‹้•ฟๆฒ™ๅฅนๅทฅไฝœ็š„้คๅŽ…ๆ‰พๅฅน๏ผŒ่ฏด้•ฟๆฒ™ๆฒ™ๆปฉ้‚ฃ่พนๅธ…ๅ“ฅ็‰นๅˆซๅคšใ€‚ๆˆ‘ๅฝ“็ฌ‘่ฏๅฌ็€ใ€‚ๅฅน้—ฎ๏ผšไฝ ๆฅ่ฟ™ๅนฒๅ˜›ใ€‚ๆˆ‘่ฏดstaycationใ€‚ๅฅนๆฒกๅฌๆ˜Ž็™ฝ่ฟ™ไธช่ฏ๏ผŒๆˆ‘่ฏด๏ผŒๆฅไฝๅ‡ ๅคฉใ€‚ๅฅน้—ฎ๏ผšไธ€ไธชไบบ๏ผŸๅผ€ๅฟƒๅ—๏ผŸๆˆ‘่ฟŸ็–‘ไบ†ไธ€ไธ‹๏ผŒๅฅน่ฏด๏ผšไธๅผ€ๅฟƒ๏ผŸ๏ผๅ“ฆ๏ผŒๆˆ‘ๆ‡‚ไบ†๏ผŒ้‚ฃไฝ ๆฅ่ฟ™้‡ŒไนŸไธไผšๅผ€ๅฟƒ็š„ใ€‚่ฟ™ๆ—ถๆˆ‘็ช็„ถๅ‘็Žฐ๏ผŒๅœจๅฅน็š„็†่งฃไธญ๏ผŒๆˆ‘ๆ˜ฏๆฅโ€œ็–—ไผคโ€็š„๏ผŒๆˆ‘ๅœจtaptapๆทท็€๏ผŒๆ˜ฏๅœจๆ‰พๆฑ‰ๅญใ€‚ๆˆ‘่ตถ็ดง่ฏด๏ผŒไธไธไธ๏ผŒ็œŸ็š„ๆ˜ฏๅ•็บฏๅœฐๆฅๆ”พไธชๅ‡๏ผŒๆฒกไป€ไนˆ็‰นๆฎŠๅŽŸๅ› ใ€‚ๅฅนๅˆ็ซ‹ๅˆป่ฏด๏ผšๅ“ฆ๏ผŒๆˆ‘ๆ‡‚๏ผŒme-timeๅ˜›๏ผๆˆ‘ไปฌ้ƒฝ้œ€่ฆme-time็š„ใ€‚ๆœ€ๅŽๅฅน็กฌ่ฆๆŠŠwhatsapp็ป™ๆˆ‘๏ผŒไธ็ฎกๅ‡บไบŽไฝ•็งๅŽŸๅ› ๏ผŒๆˆ‘้ƒฝๆ„Ÿๅˆฐๅพˆ้šพๆ‹’็ป่ฟ™ไนˆไธ€็ง็ฒ—็Šท็š„็œŸ่ฏšใ€‚

ๅ’Œ่ฟ™ไนˆไธ€ๅธฎไบ’็›ธไน‹้—ด้žๅธธ็†Ÿๆ‚‰็š„ๆœฌๅœฐๆ‘ๆฐ‘ๅๅœจไธ€่ตท๏ผŒๆˆ‘ๆ—ขๆ˜ฏๆœ‰็‚นๆ ผๆ ผไธๅ…ฅ๏ผŒไนŸ้šพๅ…ๆ„Ÿๅˆฐ่‡ชๅทฑๆ‰“ๆ‰ฐๅˆฐไบ†ไธ€ไธชๆœฌๅฏไปฅๆ›ดไบฒๅฏ†็š„ๆฐ›ๅ›ดใ€‚ๆˆ‘ๅฐฝ้‡ไธๅคš่ฏดไป€ไนˆ๏ผŒๅช้กพๅ–้…’๏ผŒๆŠฝ็ƒŸ๏ผŒๅ—ค็ฌ‘๏ผŒไธ€่พน่ดชๅฉชๅœฐ่ง‚ๅฏŸ็€๏ผŒไธ€่พนๆœŸๅพ…ๆฒกๆœ‰ไบบๅ‘็Žฐๆˆ‘็š„โ€œๅฐดๅฐฌโ€ใ€‚่€ŒAngelๅ’ŒMaryไธๅŒ๏ผŒๅฅนไปฌๅฑžไบŽๆš‚ไธ”ๅฐ†ๅ…ถ็งฐไน‹ไธบใ€Œๆ‘้‡Œ็š„ๅฅณไบบใ€็š„ไธ€็ฑป๏ผŒๅฅนไปฌๅฏไปฅ้žๅธธๆ”พๆพๅœฐๅ’Œ่ฟ™ไนˆไธ€ๅ †ๅ–็€้…’็š„ๆ— ๆ‰€ไบ‹ไบ‹็š„็”ทไบบไปฌๅ„็ง็žŽๆ‰ฏๆทก๏ผŒๅผ ๅผ›ๆœ‰ๅบฆๅœฐๅผ€ไธ€ไบ›่กจ้ข็ฒ—ไฟ—๏ผŒไฝ†ๅˆฐๅบ•ๆ— ไผคๅคง้›…็š„็Žฉ็ฌ‘๏ผŒๅฅนไปฌ็š„ๆœฌ่ƒฝๆ˜ฏไธ€็ง่‰ฏๆ€ง็š„โ€œ่ฐƒๆƒ…โ€๏ผŒ่ฟ™ไธŽๅฅนไปฌๆœฌ่บซ็š„ๅงฟ่‰ฒ๏ผŒๅงฟๆ€๏ผŒ้ƒฝๆฏซๆ— ๅ…ณ็ณป๏ผŒ่€Œๆ›ดๅƒๆ˜ฏ็”Ÿๆดปๅœจไธ€ไธชๆ‘ๅญ้‡Œ็š„ไบบไน‹้—ดๅคฉ็„ถๅฝขๆˆ็š„็›ธๅค„ไน‹้“ใ€‚

่ฟ™ๆ—ถๆˆ‘ไผšๆ˜Ž็™ฝ๏ผŒๆ— ่ฎบ็”Ÿๆดปๅœจๅคšๅฐ็š„ๅœฐๆ–น๏ผŒๆ— ่ฎบๆˆ‘็ฆปๆƒณ่ฑกไธญ็š„โ€œไนกๆ‘็”Ÿๆดปโ€ๅคšไนˆ่ฟ‘ไบ†๏ผŒๆˆ‘้ƒฝๆ˜ฏ่žไธ่ฟ›่ฟ™ๆ ท็š„โ€œ็พคไฝ“โ€็š„ใ€‚ๆˆ‘ไนŸไธๅบ”็กฌ่ฆๆ”นๅ˜่‡ชๅทฑๅŽป่žๅ…ฅไป€ไนˆใ€‚ๆˆ‘็š„ๅฟซไนโ€”โ€”ๅ€˜ๅฆ‚ๅฏไปฅๅฝขๅฎนไธบใ€Œๆ—…ไบบ็š„ๅฟซไนใ€โ€”โ€”ๅ‘ๆฅ้ƒฝๆฅ่‡ชไบŽ็ป่ฟ‡ๆŸๅค„๏ผŒๅ’ŒๆŸไธ€็งๆœช็Ÿฅ็š„ๅญ˜ๅœจๆ“ฆ่‚ฉ่€Œ่ฟ‡๏ผŒ็ชฅๆŽขไธ€ไธ‹ไธชไธญ็ฉถ็ซŸ๏ผŒๅ†ๆ„็Šนๆœชๅฐฝๅœฐ็ฆปๅผ€๏ผŒ็ผ“ๆ…ขๅœฐๅ›žๅฝ’ไธ€็ง๏ผŒๆ— ้œ€ไผช่ฃ…็š„ๅญค็‹ฌใ€‚

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briefly on love.

After writing down the title, the classic short story of Raymond Carver inevitable came upon meโ€Šโ€”โ€ŠWhat do we talk about when we talk about love.

In the past year or so, my opinion and feeling of the love subject have gone through some substantial changes. It doesnโ€™t mean thereโ€™s a 180 degree sharp turn kind of shift of view, nor does it mean the denial of the past self, however, I could indeed feel that, a flow of change on the fundamental level has happened inside me. If it has to be put into text in a however inaccurate form, I guess it can be said that, love is no longer the center of my life. This is not an acknowledgement that comes like an epiphany moment, and it certainly is not some kind of stress reaction after a traumatizing event. It comes more like a renewed self appraisal, supplemented by experience over the years.

Since I was little, Iโ€™ve been more interested in love than in any other subject. The idea of romance fascinated me. It is fair to say, in the first 30 years of my life, I was always someone who lives to love and thinks of love as the most profound quest. If โ€œbeing in loveโ€ is an option in the specialty category just like โ€œpianoโ€ or โ€œbadmintonโ€, I would have ticked that box without any hesitation. I might not be the most talented one, but from the depth of experience, I should at least be recognized for my assiduity.

Given that, with one after another relationship started, ended, passed, having gone through the highs and the lows and eventually the neutral land, looking back, I realize I still cant say Iโ€™ve got love figured out. At most I can say, I think I have experienced love; and if I have to describe it at my best attempt, love is perhaps this strong silent traction that leads you to go through an unknown passage, it flickers, you donโ€™t have a clear vision, but you canโ€™t help but go forward.

I donโ€™t think Iโ€™ve got love quite figured out becoz, if one day I met this kind of traction again, I would probably still just follow it into another passage, clueless yet without a second thought; after the traction is faded, I would very likely end up back at the same original spot like the previous times, left with myself and a silent sigh. But in the process of repeatedly screwing up and losing someone, I did gain something. Over the years that I tried to figure love out and failed, I unexpectedly figured out some other things. For exampleโ€Šโ€”โ€Šthe thing worse than losing a relationship is losing oneself; the thing more important than finding โ€œthe oneโ€ is accepting yourself; and the thing that probably means more than acquiring love, is being able to give love.

Itโ€™s only until my most recent relationship has ended, I realized in hindsight that in all these years, I was mostly busy chasing the feeling of love, of falling in love, but rarely truly practised love. The feeling of love, is falling, is surreal, is out of balance; itโ€™s driven by desire, the instinct of grabbing tight. While what love truly is, in my limited understanding and livelong meditation, is perhaps growing together, nurturing one another; it doesnโ€™t necessarily concern ownership, itโ€™s a stream of warm current youโ€™re willing to protect even at the price of sustaining solitude; itโ€™s a lingering strength, a promise of freedom.

When we talk about love, a frequently asked question is โ€œdo you believe in love.โ€ This is indeed thoroughly misleading. Fundamentally, love is an unidentifiable feeling. A thousand people would have a thousand feelings of love. In the absence of a universal definition, to question repetitively if one believes in love serves very little purpose. The full version of โ€œdo you believe in love?โ€ is actually โ€œdo you believe that love will happen on you?โ€ We cannot control love, but we can control ourselves to some extent. Hence, about love, thereโ€™s only one question worth askingโ€Šโ€”โ€Šdo you deserve love?

Whatever oneโ€™s ideal version of love is, one should make sure one is being it and well-worth it in the first place. If you want tremendous love, develop an interesting soul; if you want mellow love, be healthy and positive; if you want understanding love, learn to listen and respect; if you want freedom in love, start to give freedom; if you donโ€™t want to lose yourself in love, grow a stronger root of your โ€œselfโ€. If love, after all, is just damn luck, then the least one can do is to earn the ticket to be in that damn lucky draw.

I reckon this is also why Iโ€™m taking love more lightlyโ€Šโ€”โ€Šitโ€™s not that I stop caring or stop wanting it, itโ€™s that besides learning the limitation and randomness of love, Iโ€™ve also learned that, the quest of love doesnโ€™t happen in the sea of people. The quest of love, is essentially, the quest of oneself.

Translated/Rewritten from the below original piece in Chinese I wrote on Feb 14 2019:

่ฐˆ่ฐˆ็ˆฑๆƒ…

ๅ†™ไธ‹ๆ ‡้ข˜ๅŽ๏ผŒ่„‘ไธญ่‡ช็„ถ่€Œ็„ถๆตฎ็Žฐๅ‡บๅกไฝ›็ปๅ…ธ็š„ๅฐ่ฏดๆ ‡้ข˜๏ผšๅฝ“ๆˆ‘ไปฌ่ฐˆ่ฎบ็ˆฑๆƒ…ๆ—ถๆˆ‘ไปฌๅœจ่ฐˆ่ฎบไป€ไนˆใ€‚

่ฟ™ไธ€ๅนดๅคšๆฅ๏ผŒๆˆ‘ๅฏน็ˆฑๆƒ…็š„่ง‚ๅฟตๅ’Œๆ„Ÿ่ง‰ๅฏไปฅ่ฏดๅ‘็”Ÿไบ†ๅพˆๅคง็š„ๅ˜ๅŒ–ใ€‚่ฟ™ไบ›ๅ˜ๅŒ–ๅนถไธๆ˜ฏไธ€ไธช180ๅบฆๅคง่ฝฌๅผฏ่ฟ™ๆ ท็š„็ชๅ…€็š„็ปๅฏน่ฝฌๅ˜๏ผŒไนŸไธๆ˜ฏๅฏนๆ—งๆˆ‘็š„ๅฆๅฎš๏ผŒไฝ†ๆˆ‘ๅพˆ็กฎๅฎšๅœฐๆ„Ÿ่ง‰ๅˆฐ๏ผŒๆœ‰ไธ€่‚กๆœฌ่ดจไธŠ็š„ๅ˜ๅŒ–ไน‹ๆต๏ผŒๅˆ‡ๅฎžๅœฐๅ‘็”Ÿไบ†ใ€‚ๅฆ‚ๆžœ็ฒ—็•ฅๅœฐ่ฏ‰่ฏธ่ฏญ่จ€๏ผŒๆˆ‘ๆƒณๆ˜ฏๆˆ‘ๅฏไปฅๅพˆๆ˜Ž็กฎๅœฐๆ„Ÿ่ง‰ๅˆฐ๏ผŒ็ˆฑๆƒ…ไธๅ†ๆ˜ฏๆˆ‘็š„็”Ÿๅ‘ฝ็š„ๆ ธๅฟƒใ€‚่ฟ™ไธชๆ„Ÿ่ง‰๏ผŒไธๆ˜ฏๅƒโ€œ็ช็„ถๅ‘็Žฐไบ†็œŸ็†โ€ไผผๅœฐ้กฟๆ‚Ÿ๏ผŒไธๆ˜ฏๅฏนไผค็—›็š„ๅบ”ๆฟ€ๅๅบ”๏ผŒ่€Œๆ›ดๅƒๆ˜ฏไธ€็ง็ปๅŽ†ๅŠ ๆŒไน‹ๅŽ็š„ๅฐฝๅฏ่ƒฝๅฎข่ง‚็š„่‡ชๆˆ‘่ฏ„่ฟฐใ€‚

ไปŽๅนด็บชๅพˆๅฐ็š„ๆ—ถๅ€™ๅผ€ๅง‹๏ผŒๆˆ‘ๅฐฑๆ˜ฏไธ€ไธชๅฏน็ˆฑๆƒ…็š„ๅ…ด่ถฃๅคงไบŽๅฏน็”Ÿๅ‘ฝๆœฌ่บซ็š„ๅ…ด่ถฃ็š„ไบบใ€‚็ˆฑๆƒ…ไปคๆˆ‘็€่ฟท๏ผŒๅฏไปฅ่ฏดๅœจ30ๅฒไปฅๅ‰๏ผŒๆˆ‘้ƒฝๆ˜ฏไธ€ไธชไธบ็ˆฑๆดป็€๏ผŒไปฅ็ˆฑไธบๆœ€้ซ˜่ฟฝๆฑ‚็š„ไบบใ€‚ๅฆ‚ๆžœ่ฏดโ€œ่ฐˆๆ‹็ˆฑโ€่ทŸโ€œ้’ข็ดโ€ใ€โ€œ็พฝๆฏ›็ƒโ€ไน‹่พˆไธ€ๆ ท๏ผŒไนŸๆ˜ฏ็‰น้•ฟไธญ็š„ไธ€ไธช้€‰้กน๏ผŒๆˆ‘ๆƒณๆˆ‘ๅฏไปฅๆฏซไธ็Šน่ฑซๅœฐๆ‰“ๅ‹พโ€Šโ€”โ€Šโ€” ๅณไพฟไธ็ฎ—ๅคฉ่ต‹็ง‰ๅผ‚๏ผŒไปŽ็ป้ชŒๅ€ผ่ฏ„ๅˆค๏ผŒๆ€ŽไนˆไนŸๆ˜ฏไธชๅˆป่‹ฆๅž‹้€‰ๆ‰‹ใ€‚่€Œๅณไฝฟๅฆ‚ๆญค๏ผŒไธ€ๆฎตๆฎตๆ‹็ˆฑๅผ€ๅง‹ไบ†๏ผŒ็ป“ๆŸไบ†๏ผŒ่ฟ‡ๅŽปไบ†๏ผŒๅฟซไน่ฟ‡๏ผŒไผคๅฟƒ่ฟ‡๏ผŒๅนณ้™ไบ†๏ผŒไป”็ป†ๅ›žๆƒณ๏ผŒ็ซŸๅฅฝๅƒ่‡ณไปŠไนŸไป็„ถๆฒกๆœ‰ๅผ„ๆ‡‚็ˆฑๆƒ…ๆ˜ฏๆ€Žไนˆไธ€ๅ›žไบ‹ใ€‚ๆˆ‘ๅช่ƒฝ่ฏด๏ผŒๆˆ‘ๅฅฝๅƒ็ปๅŽ†่ฟ‡็ˆฑๆƒ…่ฟ™ไธ€ๅ›žไบ‹๏ผŒๅฆ‚ๆžœ้ž่ฆๅฝขๅฎน๏ผŒๅคงๆฆ‚ๆ˜ฏไธ€็งๆ— ๅฃฐๅดๅผบๅคง็š„ๅผ•ๅŠ›๏ผŒไธ€ๆ—ฆ้‡ไธŠ๏ผŒไพฟๅช่ƒฝ้กบ็€ๅฎƒ็š„ๆ–นๅ‘่ฟ‡ๅŽป๏ผŒๅฟฝๆš—ๅฟฝๆ˜Ž๏ผŒๆƒ…ไธ่‡ช็ฆใ€‚ๆฒกๆœ‰ๅผ„ๆ‡‚๏ผŒๆ˜ฏๅ› ไธบๆˆ‘ๆƒณๅฆ‚ๆžœ่ฟ™ไธชๅŠ›้‡ๅ†ๆฌกๅ‘็”Ÿ๏ผŒๆๆ€•่ฟ˜ๆ˜ฏไผš็จ€้‡Œ็ณŠๆถ‚ๅœฐ่ทŸ็€ๅฎƒ่ตฐ๏ผŒๆœ€ๅŽๆžไธๅฅฝไนŸๆ˜ฏ่ฝๅพ—ไธชๆ„ฃๅœจๅŽŸๅœฐไธ€ๅฃฐๅนๆฏ็š„็ป“ๅฑ€๏ผˆๅฝ“็„ถไนŸๆฌข่ฟŽๅ…ถไป–็ป“ๅฑ€๏ผ‰ใ€‚ไฝ†ๆ˜ฏๅœจ่ฟ™ไธชไธๆ–ญๆž็ ธใ€ๅคฑๅŽป็š„่ฟ‡็จ‹ไธญ๏ผŒๆˆ‘ไนŸๅนถ้žไธ€ๆ— ๆ‰€่Žทใ€‚ๅœจๅฐ่ฏ•ๅผ„ๆ‡‚็ˆฑๆƒ…ๅดไพ็„ถไธ€ๅคด้›พๆฐด็š„่ฟ™ไบ›ๅนด้‡Œ๏ผŒๆˆ‘ๆ„ๅค–ๅœฐๅผ„ๆ‡‚ไบ†ๅฆไธ€ไบ›ไบ‹๏ผŒๆฏ”ๅฆ‚่ฏด๏ผŒๆฏ”ๅคฑๅŽปไธ€ๆฎตๆ„Ÿๆƒ…ๆ›ด็ณŸ็ณ•็š„๏ผŒๆ˜ฏไธขๅคฑ่‡ชๅทฑ๏ผ›ๆฏ”ๆ‰พๅˆฐ็œŸ็ˆฑๆ›ด้‡่ฆ็š„๏ผŒๆ˜ฏไบ†่งฃ่‡ชๅทฑ๏ผ›ๆฏ”ๅพ—ๅˆฐ็ˆฑๆ›ด้‡่ฆ็š„๏ผŒๆ˜ฏ็ป™ไบˆ็ˆฑใ€‚

ไนŸ็›ดๅˆฐๆœ€ๅŽไธ€ๆฎตๆ‹ๆƒ…็š„็ป“ๆŸ๏ผŒๆˆ‘ๆ‰ๅŽ็ŸฅๅŽ่ง‰ๅœฐๅ‘็Žฐ๏ผŒไธ€็›ดไปฅๆฅ๏ผŒๆˆ‘ๅฅฝๅƒๆ›ดๅคšๅœฐๆ˜ฏๅœจๆ‹๏ผŒๅด้ฒœๆœ‰ๆฒ‰ๅฎžๅœฐๅŽป็ˆฑใ€‚ๆ‹๏ผŒๆ˜ฏๅ •ๅ…ฅๆƒ…็ฝ‘๏ผŒๆ›ดๅคšๆ—ถๆ˜ฏไธ€็ง่™šๅนป็š„ใ€ๅคฑ่กก็š„ๆ„Ÿ่ง‰๏ผŒๆ˜ฏๆฌฒๆœ›ไฝฟ็„ถ๏ผŒๆ˜ฏๆƒณ่ฆ็‰ข็‰ขๆŠ“็ดง๏ผ›่€Œ็ˆฑ๏ผŒๅœจๆˆ‘ๆœ‰้™็š„็†่งฃๅ’Œๆผซ้•ฟ็š„ๅ†ฅๆƒณไธญ๏ผŒๅคงๆฆ‚ๆ˜ฏๅ…ฑๅŒๆˆ้•ฟ๏ผŒไบ’็›ธๅฎŒๅ–„๏ผŒๆ˜ฏไธ€็งๆŒไน…่ฆ็ป•็š„ๅŠ›้‡๏ผŒๆ— ๅ…ณๆ‹ฅๆœ‰๏ผŒๆ˜ฏๅฎๆ„ฟๆ‰ฟๅ—ๅญค็‹ฌไนŸๆ„ฟๆ„ๅŽปๅฎˆๆŠค็š„ไธ€่‚กๆš–ๆต๏ผŒๆ˜ฏๆˆๅ…จๅฝผๆญค็š„่‡ช็”ฑใ€‚

ๅฝ“ๆˆ‘ไปฌ่ฐˆ่ฎบ็ˆฑๆƒ…ๆ—ถ๏ผŒไบบไปฌๅธธๅธธ้—ฎๅˆฐ็š„้—ฎ้ข˜ๆ˜ฏ๏ผšไฝ ็›ธไฟก็ˆฑๆƒ…ๅ—๏ผŸๅ…ถๅฎž่ฟ™ๆ˜ฏไธ€ไธชๅ……ๆปก่ฏฏๅฏผๆ€ง็š„้—ฎ้ข˜ใ€‚ๅ› ไธบไปŽๆœฌ่ดจ่€Œ่จ€๏ผŒ็ˆฑๆƒ…ๆ— ่‰ฒๆ— ๅ‘ณ๏ผŒๆ— ๅฝขๆ— ็Šถ๏ผŒๅฎƒไธ่ฟ‡ๆ˜ฏไธ€็งๆ„Ÿ่ง‰ใ€‚ไธ€ๅƒไธชไบบ๏ผŒๆœ‰ไธ€ๅƒ็งๆ„Ÿ่ง‰๏ผŒๅœจ็ผบไนๆ™ฎไธ–็š„ๅฎšไน‰็š„ๅ‰ๆไธ‹๏ผŒๅŽปๅๅค่ดจ้—ฎๆ˜ฏๅฆ็›ธไฟกๅ…ถๅญ˜ๅœจ๏ผŒๅนถๆฒกๆœ‰ไป€ไนˆๆ„ไน‰ใ€‚โ€œๆ˜ฏๅฆ็›ธไฟก็ˆฑๆƒ…โ€่ฟ™ไธช้—ฎ้ข˜็š„ๅฎŒๆ•ด็‰ˆๅœจไบŽ๏ผšๆ˜ฏๅฆ็›ธไฟก็ˆฑๆƒ…ไผšๅ‘็”Ÿๅœจ่‡ชๅทฑ่บซไธŠใ€‚ๆˆ‘ไปฌๆ— ๆณ•ๆŽงๅˆถ็ˆฑๆƒ…๏ผŒไฝ†ๅฏไปฅๅœจไธ€ๅฎš็จ‹ๅบฆไธŠๆŽงๅˆถ่‡ชๅทฑใ€‚ๅ› ๆญค๏ผŒๅ…ณไบŽ็ˆฑๆƒ…๏ผŒๅชๆœ‰ไธ€ไธช้—ฎ้ข˜็œŸๆญฃๅ€ผๅพ—่ฟฝ้—ฎ๏ผšไฝ ๅ€ผๅพ—็ˆฑๆƒ…ๅ—๏ผŸ

็†ๆƒณไธญ็š„็ˆฑๆƒ…ๆ˜ฏไป€ไนˆๆ ทๅญ๏ผŒๅฐฑๅบ”่ฏฅๅ…ˆๆŠŠ่‡ชๅทฑๆดปๆˆ็›ธๅบ”็š„ๆ ทๅญ๏ผŒๅŽปๅ€ผๅพ—ๆ‹ฅๆœ‰้‚ฃๆ ท็š„็ˆฑๆƒ…ใ€‚ๆƒณ่ฆ็ฒพๅฝฉ็š„ๆ‹็ˆฑ๏ผŒๅฐฑๅ…ˆๅ…ปๆˆๆœ‰่ถฃ็š„็ต้ญ‚๏ผ›ๆƒณ่ฆ็จณๅฎšๆˆ็†Ÿ็š„ๅ…ณ็ณป๏ผŒๅฐฑๅ…ˆๆˆไธบๅฅๅบทๆญฃ้ข็š„ไบบ๏ผ›ๆƒณ่ฆ่Žทๅพ—็†่งฃ๏ผŒๅฐฑ่ฆๅญฆไผšๅฐŠ้‡ไธŽๅ€พๅฌ๏ผ›ๆƒณ่ฆ่‡ช็”ฑ็š„ๅ…ณ็ณป๏ผŒๅฐฑ่ฆๆ‡‚ๅพ—ๅœจไธ€ๆฎตๅ…ณ็ณปไธญ็ป™ไบˆ่‡ช็”ฑ๏ผ›ๆƒณ่ฆไธ่ฟทๅคฑ่‡ชๅทฑ๏ผŒๅฐฑ่ฆไฟฎๆˆ่ถณๅคŸๅผบๅคง็š„่‡ชๆˆ‘ใ€‚ๅฆ‚ๆžœ็ˆฑๆƒ…็ปˆ็ฉถๅชๆ˜ฏ็‹—ๅฑŽ่ฟ๏ผŒไปŽไธชไบบ่€Œ่จ€๏ผŒ่ƒฝๅš็š„ไพฟๆ˜ฏ้€š่ฟ‡ๅŠชๅŠ›๏ผŒ็ฆป็‹—ๅฑŽ่ฟๆ›ด่ฟ‘ไธ€ๆญฅใ€‚

ๆˆ‘ๆƒณ่ฟ™ไนŸๆ˜ฏไธบไป€ไนˆๆˆ‘ๅผ€ๅง‹ๅฏน็ˆฑๆƒ…็œ‹ๅพ—่ถŠๆฅ่ถŠโ€œ่ฝปโ€โ€Šโ€”โ€Šโ€” ๅนถไธๆ˜ฏไธๅ†ๅœจๆ„ๆˆ–ไธๅ†ๆธดๆœ›๏ผŒ่€Œๆ˜ฏๅœจไบ†่งฃๅˆฐ็ˆฑๆƒ…็š„ๅฑ€้™ๆ€งๅ’Œๅถ็„ถๆ€งไน‹ๅค–๏ผŒๆˆ‘ๆ›ดๆ˜Ž็™ฝไบ†๏ผŒๅฏป่ง…็ˆฑๆƒ…็š„่ฟ‡็จ‹๏ผŒๅ…ถๅฎžๅนถไธๆ˜ฏๅ‘็”Ÿๅœจ่Œซ่Œซไบบๆตทไธญ๏ผŒๅฏน็ˆฑๆƒ…็š„่ฟฝๆฑ‚๏ผŒไปŽๆœฌ่ดจ่€Œ่จ€๏ผŒๅณๆ˜ฏๅฏน่‡ชๆˆ‘็š„ๅฏป่ง…ใ€‚

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hole of the heart.

hole of the heart.

็”Ÿๆดป้กบ้‚ไนŸๅฅฝ๏ผŒ็ƒฆๆ‰ฐไนŸๅฅฝ๏ผŒๅฟƒ้‡Œ็š„้‚ฃไธชๆดž้ƒฝไผšๅœจใ€‚ๅœจไธ‹ไบ†็ญ่ตฐๅ›žๅฎถ็š„่ทฏไธŠๅ†’ๅ‡บๆฅ๏ผŒๅœจๅ’Œๆœ‹ๅ‹่šไผš่Šๅคฉ็š„ๅฝ“ไธญๅ†’ๅ‡บๆฅ๏ผŒๅœจ็”œ่œœ็บฆไผš็š„ๆ—ถๅ€™ๅ†’ๅ‡บๆฅ๏ผŒๅœจๅ’Œ็ˆถๆฏ็œ‹็€็”ต่ง†็š„ๆ—ถๅ€™ๅ†’ๅ‡บๆฅใ€‚้—ท้—ท็š„ใ€‚ๅชๅฅฝไปป็”ฑๅฎƒๅŽปใ€‚

 

 

 

 

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Feel a bit sad tonight as I was criticized by someone as “being too smart to take my future serious.” I felt embarrassed at this argument, a bit irritated even, but couldn’t come up with anything to return the favor. After all, it’s a lot to take on when you receive accusation and flattery at the same time in one sentence.

In this world, one can be artless or sophisticated, idealistic or realistic. It’s all plainly a personal choice.

Of course I know my own shit. And as reluctant as I want to admit that, most of the time I feel helpless tired of my slothfulness and negativity. And I gradually grow tired of preaching to people my pessimism theory, for nothing is remotely convincing when it needs to be preached.

I guess I will leave nothing behind me eventually. Everything about me, my absurdity and anger, my affection and ambition, my happiness and obsessiveness…will all be washed away by the relentless time, except for some limited trace of struggles.

 

ไปŠๆ™šๆœ‰ไบ›้šพ่ฟ‡ใ€‚่จ€่ฐˆไธญๆฏซๆ— ้ข„ๅ…†็š„่ขซไบบๅ† ไปฅ๏ผ‚ๅ› ไธบๅคช่ชๆ˜Ž่€Œๅฏน่‡ชๅทฑ็š„ๅ‰้€”้ฉฌ้ฉฌ่™Ž่™Ž๏ผ‚็š„็ฝชๅใ€‚ๆˆ‘ๆ„Ÿๅˆฐๅฐดๅฐฌ๏ผŒไบ›่ฎธๆผๆ€’๏ผŒไธ€ๆ—ถไน‹้—ด็ซŸๅๅบ”ไธๅ‡บไปปไฝ•ๅ›žๅ‡ป็š„ๅฏ่ƒฝใ€‚ๆฏ•็ซŸflatteryๅ’Œaccusationๅœจไธ€ไธชๅฅๅญ้‡ŒๅŒๆ—ถๅ‡บ็Žฐ๏ผŒ็กฎๅฎžๆ˜ฏๅซไบบๆœ‰ไบ›ๅบ”ๆŽฅไธๆš‡ใ€‚

ๅคฉ็œŸ่ฟ˜ๆ˜ฏไธ–ๆ•…๏ผŒ็†ๆƒณ่ฟ˜ๆ˜ฏ็Žฐๅฎž๏ผŒ้ƒฝไธ่ฟ‡ๆ˜ฏไธ€็ง้€‰ๆ‹ฉใ€‚่‹ฅ้žๆž็ซฏๅนธ่ฟ๏ผŒๅคงๆŠตๅพˆ้šพๅ…ผ่€Œๆœ‰ไน‹ใ€‚

ๆˆ‘่‡ช็„ถไธๆ˜ฏๆฏซๆ— ่‡ช็Ÿฅไน‹ๆ˜Ž็š„ใ€‚ๅคงๅคšๆ•ฐๆ—ถๅ€™๏ผŒๅฏนไบŽ่‡ช่บซ้™„ๅธฆ็š„ๆ‚ฒ่ง‚ๅ’Œๆ‡’ๆƒฐ๏ผŒ้ƒฝๆ„ŸๅˆฐๆŸๆ‰‹ๆ— ็ญ–ใ€‚็”š่‡ณๅŽŒๅ€ฆไบ†ๅฏนไป–ไบบ่งฃ้‡Š่‡ชๅทฑ็š„้‚ฃๅฅ—ๅนถไธๆ€Žไนˆconvincing็š„ๆ‚ฒ่ง‚่ฎบ่ฐƒใ€‚ๅ› ไธบ้‚ฃๅนถไธๅ—ๆฌข่ฟŽ๏ผŒๆ‰€ไปฅๅนฒ่„†ๆ‹’็ปไธ€ๅˆ‡็คผ่ฒŒๆ€ง็š„ๅฅฝๅฅ‡ใ€‚

ๆˆ‘ๆƒณๆˆ‘ๆœ€็ปˆไธไผšๅœจ่ฟ™ไธชไธ–็•Œ็•™ไธ‹ไป€ไนˆ๏ผŒไธ€ๅˆ‡ๅ’Œ่‡ชๅทฑๆœ‰ๅ…ณ็š„่’่ฐฌๅ’Œๆ„คๆ€’ใ€็ˆฑๆƒ…ๅ’Œ็†ๆƒณใ€ๅฟซไนๅ’Œๆ‰งๅฟตโ‹ฏโ‹ฏๆœ€็ปˆ้ƒฝไผš่ขซๆ—ถ้—ด่ขซๅ†ฒๅˆทๅพ—ๅนฒๅนฒๅ‡€ๅ‡€ใ€‚้™คไบ†่ฟ™ๆ ทไธ€ไบ›ๆœ‰้™็š„๏ผŒๆŒฃๆ‰Ž่ฟ‡็š„็—•่ฟนใ€‚

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summer is fading.

ไฝ ็š„ๅคฉ่ต‹๏ผŒๆ˜ฏไฝ ไปŽไธๆฒ‰ๆนŽใ€‚

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ๅฆ‚ๆžœ่ฏด่ฟ™ไนˆๅคšๆฌก็š„”้€ƒ็ฆป”ๆ•™ไผšไบ†ๆˆ‘ไป€ไนˆ๏ผŒๅฐฑๆ˜ฏ้€ƒ็ฆป็ปˆ็ฉถๆ˜ฏๆฏซๆ— ๅธฎๅŠฉใ€‚ไฝ ่Žทๅพ—็Ÿญๆš‚็š„ๅฟซๆ„Ÿ๏ผŒ็„ถๅŽๅ†ๅฐ†ๆฏไธ€ไธชๆ‰€่‡ณไน‹ๅค„ๅ˜ๆˆไธ‹ไธ€ไธช็ญ‰ๅพ…่ขซ้€ƒ็ฆป็š„ๆ ‡็Ÿขใ€‚ๆˆ–่ฎธไนŸๆœ‰ไบบๅƒๆˆ‘ไธ€ๆ ท๏ผŒๅœจๅนด็บช่ฝป่ฝป็š„ๆ—ถๅ€™ๅ—ๅˆฐmilan kundera็š„่›Šๆƒ‘๏ผŒๅฐ†life is elsewhere็œ‹ไฝœๆ•™ๆกๆฅไฟกๅฅ‰ใ€‚ไบ‹ๅฎžไธŠๆ˜†ๅพทๆ‹‰ๆฒกๆœ‰้”™๏ผŒๅชๆ˜ฏๅฅๅญ็š„ๅŽไธ€ๅŠ่ฟœไธๅฆ‚ๅ‰ไธ€ๅŠ้‚ฃๆ ทๅฆ‚้›ท่ดฏ่€ณใ€‚life is elsewhere, and there’s nowhere else. ๏ผˆ็”Ÿๆดปๅœจๅˆซๅค„๏ผŒ่€Œๅˆซๅค„ๅนถไธๅญ˜ๅœจใ€‚๏ผ‰

็ฆปๅผ€ๆ˜ฏไผช่ฃ…็š„ๆžœๆ•ข๏ผŒๆ˜ฏๆœ€่ฝปไฝป็š„ๅงฟๆ€ใ€‚่€Œ็•™ไธ‹ๆฅ๏ผŒ็•™ๅœจ่ฟ™้‡Œ๏ผŒๆ‰ๆ˜ฏๅฏไปฅ่ขซ็งฐไน‹ไธบๅ†ณ็„ถๅ’Œๅš้Ÿง็š„ใ€‚

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่ฟ‘ๆฅๆŒ็ปญๅœฐๅœจ่€ณๆœต้‡Œๅฌๅˆฐๅฅ‡ๆ€ช็š„ๅฃฐ้Ÿณ๏ผ›ๅคดๅ‘ๅƒๆžœๅญ็†Ÿไบ†ไธ€่ˆฌๅคงๆŠŠๅคงๆŠŠๅœฐ่‡ช็„ถ่„ฑ่ฝ๏ผ›็œ‹็€้•œๅญ๏ผŒไผšๅœจ0.1็ง’ๅ†…referๅˆฐโ€œ้ขๅฆ‚่œ่‰ฒโ€่ฟ™ไธช่ฏใ€‚ๆœ‰ๆ—ถๅ€™ๆ˜ฏๆˆ‘ๅŽป่ฎฐๅฟ†ไธญๆ‘ธ็ดข็€ๆ‰พไฝ ๏ผŒๆœ‰ๆ—ถๅ€™ไฝ ้กบ็€่ฎฐๅฟ†็š„่„‰็ปœๆฅๆ‰พๆˆ‘ใ€‚ๆ—ข็„ถๅœจๆŸไธ€ๆ–น้ขๅฆ‚ๆญค็ปๆœ›ๅœฐ็ผบไนๅคฉ่ต‹๏ผŒ้‚ฃไนˆไธ€ๅ†ไธบไน‹ๅฟƒ็ขŽไนŸๆ˜ฏ้ข„ๆœŸไน‹ไธญ็š„ไบ‹ไบ†ใ€‚ๅฆ‚ๆžœๆ‹’็ปไฝฟ็”จไปปไฝ•cheesy็š„ๅญ—็œผ๏ผŒ็—›่‹ฆไพฟๅชๅพ—ๆ˜ฏ็—›่‹ฆ๏ผŒๆ— ๅฏๅ็Šถใ€‚ๅญค็‹ฌไปŽๆฅ้ƒฝๆ˜ฏๆœ€ๅ›บๆ‰ง็š„้™ชไผดใ€‚็”Ÿๆดป็š„ๆธฉๅบฆๆ˜ฏๅฆ‚ๆญคไธ€ไธชๆฏซๆ— ๆ–ฐๆ„็š„ๅพช็Žฏ๏ผŒๅ†ทไบ†ๅˆๆš–๏ผŒ็ƒญไบ†ๅˆๅ‡‰ใ€‚ๅชๅพ—่€็€ๆ€งๅญ็–ๅฏผ่‡ชๅทฑ๏ผšไฝ ๅทฒๅพ—ๅฟๆ‰€ๆ„ฟ๏ผŒๅฟ…็„ถ่‹ฅๆœ‰ๆ‰€ๅคฑใ€‚

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ๅนถ้žๅคๅŽป ็ง‹ๆ‰่‡ณใ€‚

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Swallow the hollowness.

ๆœ‰ไธ€ๅคฉ็ช็„ถๆ”ถๅˆฐไธ€ไธชๆœ‹ๅ‹็š„ไฟกๆฏ๏ผŒ่ฏดๅฅน่ง‰ๅพ—ๅพˆ็ฉบ่™šใ€‚ๆˆ‘็œ‹็€ๆ‰‹ๆœบ๏ผŒ็ช็„ถๅฟƒ้‡Œๆ‰“ไบ†ไธ€ไธชๆฟ€็ต๏ผŒ้ชค็„ถๆธ…้†’ไบ†ใ€‚ๆ‹…ๅฟƒ็š„ไบ‹ๆƒ…็œŸ็š„ๅ‘็”Ÿไบ†ใ€‚

ๅฅนๆฒกๆœ‰่ฟ‡ๅคš่€ƒ่™‘ๅœฐ่ทณ่ฟ›ไบ†ไธ€ๆฎตๆฏซๆ— ๅŸบ็ก€็š„ๅฉšๅงป๏ผŒไธ€่พนๆ˜ฏๅŒ—ๆผ‚็”Ÿๆดป็š„่‰ฐ่พ›๏ผŒๅฆไธ€่พนๆ˜ฏๅ”พๆ‰‹ๅฏๅพ—ไธ่ดนๅน็ฐไน‹ๅŠ›็š„็‰ฉ่ดจไธฐๅŽš็š„็จณๅฎš็”Ÿๆดป๏ผŒๅ‡บไนŽๆ„ๆ–™ๅœฐ๏ผŒๅฅน้€‰ๆ‹ฉไบ†ๅŽ่€…ใ€‚ๆˆ‘็š„็กฎๆš—ๆš—่ดฃๆ€ชๅฅนๆฅ็€๏ผŒไฝ†ๆ›ดๅคš็š„่ฟ˜ๆ˜ฏๅฟƒ็–ผใ€‚ๆœ‰ๆ—ถๅ€™่„†ๅผฑๅฐฑๆ˜ฏ้‚ฃไนˆๅผบๅคง๏ผŒๅฐ†ไธ€ๅˆ‡ไฟกๅฟตๅ’ŒๅšๆŒๆฏไบŽไธ€ๆ—ฆ๏ผŒๅฐคๅ…ถๅฝ“ๆˆ‘ไปฌๅคงๅคšๆ•ฐๆ—ถๅ€™้ƒฝๅฟ˜่ฎฐไบ†่‡ชๅทฑๅœจๅšๆŒ็š„ๆ˜ฏไป€ไนˆใ€‚

ๅฆไธ€ๅคฉ๏ผŒไธ€ไธชๆณๆ— ้Ÿณไฟกๅฐ†่ฟ‘ไธ€ๅนด็š„ๆœ‹ๅ‹ๆ‰“็”ต่ฏๆฅ๏ผŒ่ฏดๅฅนๆ”ถๅˆฐๆˆ‘ไปŽไบ‘ๅ—ๅฏ„ๅŽป็š„ๆ˜Žไฟก็‰‡ใ€‚่Š่ตทๅฅน็š„็”Ÿๆดป๏ผŒ่ฟ˜ๆ˜ฏไธ€ๆ ทๅœฐๅพ˜ๅพŠไบŽ่‹ฅๅนฒๆ€งไผดไน‹ไธญ๏ผŒไธ่ฐˆๆ„Ÿๆƒ…๏ผŒๅชๆฑ‚ๆœ€ๆต…ๆ˜พ็š„ๆฌขๆ„‰ใ€‚

ๆ›พ็ปๆ˜ฏๅฅนๅ‘Š่ฏ‰ๆˆ‘๏ผšI don’t do ONSใ€‚ไนŸๆ˜ฏๅฅนๅ‘Š่ฏ‰ๆˆ‘๏ผŒlove like you’ve never been hurt. ็œ‹็€ๅฅนๅ‡ ๆฌกๅœจๆ„Ÿๆƒ…้‡Œๅ—ไผค๏ผŒไนŸๅƒ็—›ๅœจ่‡ชๅทฑ่บซไธŠใ€‚ๆˆ‘้—ฎๅฅน๏ผŒ็œŸ็š„ไธๆƒณๅ†ๆœ‰็จณๅฎš็š„ๆ„Ÿๆƒ…ๅ…ณ็ณปๅ—๏ผŒๅฅนๅ้—ฎ๏ผŒ็ป“ๅฑ€ไผšๆœ‰ไป€ไนˆไธๅŒไนˆใ€‚

่ฟ™ไธคไธชไบบ๏ผŒ่ฟ™ไธคไธชๆ•…ไบ‹๏ผŒๅฐฑๅƒ้’ˆไธ€ๆ ทๆทฑๆทฑๅˆบๅœจๅฟƒไธŠใ€‚ไธไป…ๆ˜ฏๅ› ไธบๆˆ‘ๅœจไนŽๆˆ‘็š„ๆœ‹ๅ‹๏ผŒๆ›ดๆ˜ฏ่ฎฉๆˆ‘็œ‹ๅˆฐไบบไปฌๆ˜ฏๅฆ‚ไฝ•ๅฏไปฅๆ— ๆ‰€ไธ็”จๅ…ถๆžๅœฐๅŽป้€ƒ้ฟ้‚ฃไธชๅ…ณไบŽ่‡ชๅทฑ็š„็œŸ็›ธใ€‚

ๅฏๆ˜ฏๅญค็‹ฌๅ’Œ็ฉบ่™š๏ผŒๆ˜ฏ้‚ฃไนˆ็š„็ฉบๆณ›๏ผŒ็ฉบๆณ›ๅพ—่ฎฉไบบ้ƒฝไธๅฅฝๆ„ๆ€ๆ—ถๆ—ถๆŒ‚ๅœจๅ˜ด่พนใ€‚ไฝ†่ฟ™ไนŸๆ˜ฏๆœ€ๆœ‰ๅญ˜ๅœจๆ„Ÿ็š„็Žฐๅฎžใ€‚ๆฏ”ไธ€ๆŠŠๆŠŠ็š„้’ž็ฅจๆ›ด็กฎๅฎž๏ผŒๆฏ”ๅบŠ็ฌฌไน‹ๆฌขๆ›ด็กฎๅฎž๏ผŒๆฏ”ไธคๅŽขๅŽฎๅฎˆๆ›ด็กฎๅฎž๏ผŒๆฏ”ไปปไฝ•ๅฝขๅผ็š„ๅฟซไน้ƒฝๆ›ด็กฎๅฎžๅœฐๅญ˜ๅœจไบŽๆฏไธ€ๆฌก็š„ๅ‘ผๅธ้‡Œโ€”โ€”ๅฝ“ไฝ ๅๅœจไธŠ็ญ็š„็ซ่ฝฆไธŠ๏ผŒไธ‹็ญ็š„ๅฐๅทดไธŠ๏ผŒ่ฏ•ๅ›พๆ€่€ƒไธ€็‚นไป€ไนˆๆ‰‹ไธญๅดไธ่‡ช่ง‰ๆ‹ฟๅ‡บiPhone่ƒกไนฑๆ‰“ๅผ€ๅ‡ ไธชappไป€ไนˆ้ƒฝๆฒกๅนฒๅˆ้€€ๅ‡บๅŽป๏ผŒๅฝ“ไฝ ๅ›žๅˆฐๅฎถไธญๅฏน็€ๆปกๅฑ‹็š„็‹ผ่—‰็„ถๅŽๅผ ไบ†ๅผ ๅ˜ดๅดๆฒกไบบๅฌไฝ ่ฏด่ฏ๏ผŒๅฝ“ไฝ ๅœจ่Œถ้คๅŽ…ๅไธ‹็›ฏ็€ๅƒ็ฏ‡ไธ€ๅพ‹็š„้คๅ•ๆ„Ÿๅˆฐ้ฃŸๆฌฒๅ…จๆ— ็„ถๅŽๆ‹›ๆ‰‹่ทŸๆœๅŠก็”Ÿ่ฏดโ€œA้คใ€ๅ†ปๅฅถ่Œถโ€๏ผŒๅฝ“ไฝ ๆŠฝ็€ไธ€ๆ น็ƒŸๅฟƒๆƒณ็œŸไป–ๅฆˆๆถๅฟƒๅ“Ž่ฆไธๆˆ’ไบ†ๅงๅฏๆ˜ฏไธ‹ๆฌก็ป่ฟ‡ไพฟๅˆฉๅบ—ๅˆไนฐไบ†ไธ€ๅŒ…๏ผŒๅฝ“ไฝ ่ง‰ๅพ—ๅพˆ็ดฏๅพˆๅ€ฆๅพˆๆƒณๅฐ–ๅซๆˆ–่€…ๅคงๅ“ญไธ€ๅœบ๏ผŒๅดๆ†‹็€๏ผŒๅƒไธชๆˆๅนดไบบไธ€ๆ ทๅŽปๆด—่„ธๅˆท็‰™็ก่ง‰ๅคฉไบฎ่ตทๅบŠไธ€ๅˆ‡ๅพช็Žฏๅพ€ๅคโ€”โ€”่ฟ™ๅฐฑๆ˜ฏ็œŸ็›ธใ€‚

็œŸ็›ธๅฐฑๆ˜ฏๆฒกๆœ‰็œŸ็›ธใ€‚ไธ€ๅˆ‡โ€œๅญ˜ๅœจโ€๏ผŒ้ƒฝๅฏ่ƒฝๅœจๆŸไธ€ๅˆป๏ผŒไปฅโ€œไธๅญ˜ๅœจโ€็š„ๅฝขๅผ็ป™ไฝ ่‡ดๅ‘ฝไธ€ๅ‡ปใ€‚

ๆˆ‘็›ธไฟก่‹ฆ้šพๆ˜ฏๆœ‰่…่š€ๆ€ง็š„ใ€‚ๆƒ…็ปช็š„็‹ก็Œพไน‹ๅค„๏ผŒๅœจไบŽไฝ ๆ— ๆณ•้€ƒ่„ฑๅฎƒ๏ผŒไฝ ๆฏไธ€ๆฌก้€ƒ็ฆป็š„็ป“ๆžœ้ƒฝๆ˜ฏๆ— ๅŠŸ่€Œ่ฟ”๏ผŒ็›ดๅˆฐๆŸไธ€ๅˆป๏ผŒไฝ ๆœ€็ปˆๆ”พๅผƒๆŠตๆŠ—๏ผŒ็ผดๆขฐๆŠ•้™๏ผŒไปปๅ…ถๆ‘†ๅธƒใ€‚ไฝ ๆˆ–่ฎธๅชๆ˜ฏๆƒณๆญ‡ไธ€ไธ‹๏ผŒๅดๆฅไธๅŠๆ„่ฏ†ๅˆฐ๏ผŒไธ€ๆ—ฆ่ฝฏไธ‹ๅŽป๏ผŒไฝ ๅ†ไนŸ็กฌไธ่ตทๆฅใ€‚

่ฐˆๆœฌ่ดจๅฏไปฅ่ฏดๆ˜ฏๆœ€ไธ็Ÿฅๆ‰€่ฐ“็š„๏ผŒๅƒไธ‡็งๆดปๆณ•๏ผŒๅ…ถๅฎžไนŸ้ƒฝๅชๆ˜ฏๅŒไธ€็งๆดปๆณ•ใ€‚ไธๆŽฅๅœฐๆฐ”ๅ„ฟ๏ผŒ่ฐˆไป€ไนˆ้ƒฝๆ˜ฏๆ‰ฏๆทกใ€‚ๅฏๆ˜ฏ้‚ฃ็งๆ—ถๅˆปๅฆ‚้ฒ ๅœจๅ–‰็š„ๆ„Ÿ่ง‰๏ผŒ่ฎฉๆˆ‘ๆผ็ซ๏ผŒไนŸ่ฎฉๆˆ‘่ง‰ๅพ—่ธๅฎžโ€”โ€”ไธๅฆจไน่ง‚ๅœฐๆฃๆต‹๏ผŒไฝ ่ฟ˜ๆฒก่ขซๅฎƒๆ‘†ๅนณ๏ผŒๅชๆ˜ฏๆš‚ๆ—ถๆŠŠๅฎƒๅž่ฟ›ไบ†่บซไฝ“้‡Œใ€‚

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Translation.

The other day I helped a friend translate some paragraphs of Wang Xiaobo’s work. I used to think translating as the most tedious job on earth and I would never have the patience to do that. But now I realized translating the works that you really admire for is a great pleasure, a bliss, also a very efficient way to learn and improve the translator’s own writing.

I’m thinking about doing it from time to time in the future. : ) Below is what I’ve done.

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One day I went to help my friend moving. I dressed shabby on purpose for I knew I would be doing heavy works. As expected, I came back with some dirt on my forehead, a stained shirt, and some extra clumsiness for lifting refrigerator the whole day. Along with my innately dark face, I looked perfectly like an โ€œextra-provincial man who just arrived in Beijingโ€. Wearing this image as I took a bus home, both the bus conductor and passengers glanced at me in a way that they didnโ€™t even bother to hide their disapproval of my presence. Dejectedly distracted by those unfriendly gazes, I bumped into someone as I walked back home. Before my apology could slip out of the lips, I was yelled into the face that โ€œHavenโ€™t you got your eyes?!โ€ The language got even more offensive then, I guess Iโ€™d better leave out the worst part here. I quickly sloped off getting too afraid to say a word.

I would be fooling you if I said I got so resentful that the next day I rode a tricycle onto the street to sell breakfast carrying a honeycomb stove and a bucket of dirty water. But I do feel it, the causation that if others show no respect to me, I am unable to respect them either. If everyone else kept looking and yelling at me that way, I would literally be doing however awful things.

What Iโ€™m saying is, if one is able to feel the dignity of being an individual in both living condition and interpersonal relations, one would act decently in accord with the standard of a dignified man; otherwise, it would be ineluctable for one to behave in an undignified way, which eventually will turn one into a villain.

็Ž‹ๅฐๆณขๅŽŸๆ–‡ใ€ๆ‘˜่‡ชๆ‚ๆ–‡้›†ใ€Šๆฒ‰้ป˜็š„ๅคงๅคšๆ•ฐใ€‹ใ€‘๏ผš

ๆœ‰ไธ€ๅคฉ๏ผŒ ๆˆ‘ๅ‡บ้–€ๅŽปๅนซๆœ‹ๅ‹ๆฌๅฎถใ€‚ๅ‡บๅŽปๆ™‚็ฉฟๅพ—ๆฏ”่ผƒ็ ด๏ผŒๅ› ็‚บ่ฆๅš็ฒ—ๆดป๏ผ›ๅ›žไพ†ๆ™‚้ ญไธŠๆœ‰ไบ›ๅœŸ๏ผŒ่กฃๆœไธŠๆœ‰้ปžๆฑกๆผฌ๏ผŒๆŠฌไบ†ไธ€ๅคฉๅ†ฐ็ฎฑ๏ผŒ็ดฏๅพ—ๆ‰‹่…ณๆœ‰้ปž็ฌจ๏ผ›่‡ณๆ–ผ่‡‰่‰ฒ๏ผŒๅคฉ็”Ÿๅฐฑ้ป‘ใ€‚็ธฝ่€Œ่จ€ไน‹๏ผŒๅƒๅ€‹โ€œๅค–ๅœฐไพ†ไบฌไบบๅ“กโ€๏ผŒๅฐฑ้€™ๅ€‹ๆจฃๅญไน˜่ปŠๅ›žไพ†๏ผŒๅพžๅ”ฎ็ฅจๅ“กๅˆฐไน˜ๅฎข๏ผŒๅฐๆˆ‘้ƒฝไธๅคงๅฎขๆฐฃ๏ผŒ็œ‹ๆˆ‘็š„็œผ็ฅž้ƒฝไธๅฐใ€‚ๆˆ‘ๅ› ๆญคๆœ‰ไบ›ๆ†‹ๆฐฃ๏ผŒ่ตฐๅˆฐ้›ขๅฎถไธ้ ๏ผŒไธ€ไธๅฐๅฟƒ็ขฐๅˆฐไบ†ไธ€ๅ€‹ไบบใ€‚้‚„ๆฒ’็ญ‰ๆŠŠ้“ๆญ‰็š„่ฉฑ่ชชๅ‡บๅฃ๏ผŒๅฐๆ–นๅทฒ็ถ“ๅผ้“๏ผšๆฒ’ๅธถ็œผ็›ๅ—Ž๏ผŸๅบ•ไธ‹้‚„ๆœ‰ไบ›่ฉฑ๏ผŒๅฏฆๅœจไธ้›…๏ผŒไธไพฟๅœจๆญค้™ณ่ฟฐใ€‚ๆˆ‘้€ฃ่ฉฑ้ƒฝไธๆ•ข่ชช๏ผŒ่ถ•็ทŠๆบœ่ตฐไบ†ใ€‚

ๅ‡ๅฆ‚ๆˆ‘่ชช๏ผŒๆˆ‘ๅ› ๆญคๆ†‹ไบ†ไธ€ๅฃๆฐฃ๏ผŒ็ฌฌไบŒๅคฉๅฐฑ่นฌ่ผ›ไธ‰่ผช่ปŠ๏ผŒๅธถไธ€ๅ€‹่œ‚็ชฉ็…ค็ˆๅญใ€ไธ€ๆกถ้ซ’ๆฐดๅˆฐ่ก—ไธŠ็ทดๆ—ฉ้ปž๏ผŒ้‚ฃๆ˜ฏๆˆ‘ๅœจ็ทจๆ•…ไบ‹ใ€‚ไฝ†ๆˆ‘็ขบๅฏฆๆ„Ÿ่ฆบๅˆฐไบ†๏ผŒๅ‡ๅฆ‚ๅˆฅไบบ้ƒฝไธๅฐŠ้‡ๆˆ‘๏ผŒๆˆ‘ไนŸๆฒ’ๆณ•ๅฐŠ้‡ๅˆฅไบบใ€‚ๅ‡ๅฆ‚ๆ‰€ๆœ‰็š„ไบบ้ƒฝไธ€็›ดๆ–œ็œผ็œ‹ๆˆ‘๏ผŒ็ฒ—่ฒ็ฒ—ๆฐฃๅœฐ่ชชๆˆ‘๏ผŒ้‚ฃๆˆ‘็š„็ขบไป€้บฝไบ‹้ƒฝๅนนๅพ—ๅ‡บไพ†ใ€‚

ๅ‡ๅฆ‚ไธ€ๅ€‹ไบบๅœจ็”Ÿๆดปๆขไปถๅ’Œไบบ้š›้—œไฟ‚ไธŠ้ƒฝ่ƒฝๆ„Ÿๅˆฐๅšไบบ็š„ๅฐŠๅšด๏ผŒไป–ๅฐฑๆŒ‰ไธ€ๅ€‹ๆœ‰ๅฐŠๅšด็š„ไบบ็š„ๆจ™ๆบ–ไพ†่กŒไบ‹๏ผŒๅƒๅ€‹ๅ›ๅญใ€‚ๅ‡ๅฆ‚็›ธๅ๏ผŒไป–้›ฃๅ…ๆŒ‰็„กๅฐŠๅšดไบบ็š„ๆ–นๅผ่กŒไบ‹๏ผŒๅšๅ‡บไบ›ๅฐไบบ็š„่กŒๅพ‘ใ€‚