There are fewer spoken words each day because each sentence currently lacks meaning, or I just don’t get it. So it’d better remain unspoken before they lose more meaning. I’ve grown very detached from conversations. I dread going to the doctor’s this morning. He will talk about stuff that makes sense to him but mean nothing to me. I need a REAL teacher. I hope today will be my last visit. It IS going to be my last visit. I want to go and tell him that I quit the tablets about three months ago and that I’m, uh, doing fine. What does he care?
There is just one thing that bothers me. I have trouble breathing again. Shall I check for asthma (again)? In England, I went to the physician three times to have my lungs checked out. Each time she said I was fine. When she first brought up panic attacks, I was stumped for words. I couldn’t tell at that time because I’d never had those before, or I probably did as a kid. Back then, I got pulled asunder, and this is how I’ve put myself back together. I wouldn’t say that I’m suffering from panic attacks now; I think I’m relaxed.
How come only I see how I’ve aged? A freckled, worn-out face, thin hair that lacks volume and weird body curves. Ah yes, I’m no longer 21, I forgot.
Have you ever noticed that silence doesn’t exist? It’s in your imagination. Peace doesn’t exist either, and tranquillity—all an illusion. We see it as some form of a condition. To Simon and Garfunkel, silence is the biggest disturbance ever; it creates tension and interrupts life. It’s like thousands of words exploding in your head, but nobody knows except you. To me, silence is still waters that run deep.
Last week I ate an old peach. Three bites later, the whole core broke in half. First, I noticed the mould inside and then the earwig, which appeared to be dead. I was too flabbergasted to react until I saw its antennae moving. It was alive. So I put the peach back down on the plate and wondered whether I should put my finger down my throat or scream. I thought of the dead animals that I already eat. Then, I thought of people in China who eat insects. It’s normal. I decided to throw the peach out but had to show it to my mum first.
My latest story is 4,000 words long. My syntax and style are original, but they don’t make sense to many people, which means it’s bad. I wrote similarly at university. I don’t want to know what it reads like now, because I’ve not been communicating in English and I’ve not been reading many English books lately. I clearly need to get back into writing fiction. The latest story, “The bystanders,” deals with the bystander effect – simply watching people getting hurt while doing nothing. And yes, it was inspired by my biggest comic hero (even bigger than Batman now). It’s always the ruthless anti-heroes who do it to me. Their mystery makes me fall in love. I start romanticizing about those who try to hide their identities and then fantasize about them opening up to me. Who doesn’t want to be special? Showing me what it’s like to be trusted because I don’t know. Many real-life people don’t tell me much. But then I’ve always been the one who refused to be the best friend. I’m drifting away from the topic.
Some comic fans will probably hate my story because my version of Rorschach compromises for love. Yes, I have ruined his ideal and purpose. But in the comic, Rorschach talks about lust and sex, he watches how a naked couple is about to make love, and he had an obscene dream about his mother amalgamating with a man during sex. He had dirty feelings. If this information doesn’t imply something, then I don’t know. I know he was capable of love, that’s all. I wasn’t necessarily trying to change him.
I hear weird noises outside, which makes it hard to sleep with windows open. I try to avoid going to bed at four a.m. because, at this time, there would always be two crazy drivers around. One would stop outside my neighbour’s house for a while, and the other would dash from one drive to the other. I never actually saw him coming into our driveway. Still scary. Then another night, I heard a man scream. It was hard to figure out whether it was a scream of pain or what. There was no second scream, though. I don’t want to hear those two cars tonight.
