孔夫子如何修身而后齐家? Oh yes, I forgot his ideal of self-cultivation includes taking care of the happiness of the parents; and the family that he puts in order includes folks on whom he is able to exercise the dignity previously consumed by the parents.
Yesterday I had felt like a useful, substantial, even charismatic person. All thanks to caffeine, even though I read as much then as I did today. It's strange how the world can come crashing down, and the safest way out is to admit that I'm the most insignificant lifeform and huddle and hide. Or maybe it's not so strange. It's all due to overwhelming self-absorption into the present moment. The more you want to retain youth and inscribe every trickle of the present as if it's a millenium capsule, the more you panic for not having lived these very moments in the best possible way. And panic for not being able to put forth the best despite all the focus you've spent. So it's just like Stanford or Berkeley; wherever I go, does it matter? If I forget about living, I should live better.
The thing is, writing about this doesn't help much. I don't dare to call my mum even "the woman next door who gave me life". Not just for the reason that it's cheesily rhetoric; not just because I really don't have the ability, like Confucius does, to make a practical connection between parent and the significance of a life-giving gesture; more because I'm scared of her. And I can't call her "the woman". Because she's not "the woman". I can't call her that in her face. That's how scared of her I am. Imagine, 22 years old, going on 23, failed in some non-minor ways and succeeded in some other, and still scared of my mum like a girl of 16. I nipped my rebellion in the bud when I went away. Now every word spoken is laden with inertia. It's almost like speaking with Jo - not that scary because it used to be a mode of speech that I'm used to. You can call the problem the degression of the Chinese language faculty (ironically, I could only think of the word degression in Chinese at this moment, and had to check up for it) if you want. The moment of dread is verified and it becomes less scary - I can't live with my mum. How can I when I'm so absorbed in myself? My interactions, behaviour, relationships, sadness. Until I tell it to mum, I can't blame her for judging. Until she stops judging, I can't tell her. Which comes first? Before time runs out.
Until I grow older, when my strive for independence becomes less obssessive in nature, when I lose impetus, when I start to really miss home. Until then I'm an unfilial daughter.
Yesterday I had felt like a useful, substantial, even charismatic person. All thanks to caffeine, even though I read as much then as I did today. It's strange how the world can come crashing down, and the safest way out is to admit that I'm the most insignificant lifeform and huddle and hide. Or maybe it's not so strange. It's all due to overwhelming self-absorption into the present moment. The more you want to retain youth and inscribe every trickle of the present as if it's a millenium capsule, the more you panic for not having lived these very moments in the best possible way. And panic for not being able to put forth the best despite all the focus you've spent. So it's just like Stanford or Berkeley; wherever I go, does it matter? If I forget about living, I should live better.
The thing is, writing about this doesn't help much. I don't dare to call my mum even "the woman next door who gave me life". Not just for the reason that it's cheesily rhetoric; not just because I really don't have the ability, like Confucius does, to make a practical connection between parent and the significance of a life-giving gesture; more because I'm scared of her. And I can't call her "the woman". Because she's not "the woman". I can't call her that in her face. That's how scared of her I am. Imagine, 22 years old, going on 23, failed in some non-minor ways and succeeded in some other, and still scared of my mum like a girl of 16. I nipped my rebellion in the bud when I went away. Now every word spoken is laden with inertia. It's almost like speaking with Jo - not that scary because it used to be a mode of speech that I'm used to. You can call the problem the degression of the Chinese language faculty (ironically, I could only think of the word degression in Chinese at this moment, and had to check up for it) if you want. The moment of dread is verified and it becomes less scary - I can't live with my mum. How can I when I'm so absorbed in myself? My interactions, behaviour, relationships, sadness. Until I tell it to mum, I can't blame her for judging. Until she stops judging, I can't tell her. Which comes first? Before time runs out.
Until I grow older, when my strive for independence becomes less obssessive in nature, when I lose impetus, when I start to really miss home. Until then I'm an unfilial daughter.
posted by Azzurra | 8:30 PM
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