Life is meant to be sad, and the pursuit of happiness is futile. You try to be nice to people; people treat you unkindly. You try to be polite; people are rude, foul and pushy. You try to be considerate; people don’t “care a fig” about your good intentions. So there’s no reason to expect goodness in humanity, is there? Nobody’s going to give you a bed of roses – unless the petals are all plucked off. And seeing the world through rose-tinted glasses is but self-deception – you will still be pushed around and made to look down anyway.
I don’t feel like standing straight; not that I don’t know the vices of slouching, but I have no reason compelling enough to justify deceiving myself and being forbidden to feel full force the consequences of being treated like dirt, instead being made to slip my fingers away on first contact with it. Such suppression impedes healing, I was taught, but to ask me whether my teacher was right makes me feel uneasy.
Perhaps I got up on the wrong side of the bed when I was to return to Hong Kong. But, seriously, have you really left Hong Kong? Have you? Or have you been in a coma and thought you’ve been to some Lala-land and back? But if so, why would those ghastly figures and that infernal reception of the world around you impress upon your mind so vividly and horrifically? I conclude that I have had a seriously bipolar nightmare, and insanely enough, I am regrettably not open to fanning the ashes, or arranging them in a Fleur-de-lis and gold-plating them with sound advice.
Because I don’t want to be more like S.