One of the most haunting experiences that a writer can undergo in life is his silence.
Ever since I registered this blog since May 2013, I have not yet since written or posted anything. During this period of silence, another psychological dimension has seemingly contributed to a more complex sense of pain and guilt: it is the excruciatingly strong urge to write, yet unfulfilled because of my lack of any positive motivation or self-assurance that allows me to utter a voice with distinct style and truthfulness. At this instance, 9:02AM JAN/24/2014 CST, I am sitting in my room in Shanghai, China, zipping a cup of blah-tasting tea, thoroughly defeated by myself and my life so far while at the same time even more tormented by the potentially underlying narcissism of such self-deprecating register. This doubt, this relentless self-questioning of my arbitrariness and pathetic meekness, I have suffered (perhaps enjoyably!?) for years...has the time come for me to put a stop to it?
Now, at this precise moment, it is with rather spontaneous yet long-waited determination that I have forced myself to not let that aforementioned question rest as a mind-game, a mere question. Typing, smoking, pausing, hesitating to erase everything and finally go to bed; any of this cannot stop me from letting this moment of spontaneity overtake me, and letting such completely egocentric (and perhaps nonsensical) rhapsody exude out of my finger.
This is the way I write and how i will be writing: writing at the moments when I feel I cannot not do so. Perhaps at the darkest and most absurd moments as such, I can and will finally speak my truth. This is me. And this is my world of philosophical doubts, artistic pondering, political outrage, and questionably narcissistic self-deprecation.