How to find that happy balance.
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Schizophrenia with metropolis
Easton 2022-03-23 09:03:22
Urbanization is forcing people to be schizophrenic. They choose to leave the rural towns that are as familiar as palm prints in their memory, and follow the torrent to the metropolis with skyscrapers. The flat tongue corrects to make others think that he is one with the metropolis. And then the endless schizophrenia begins. Imagine if there is such a same self, he has not been able to continue his studies after graduating from junior high school, wandering in society, smoking and drinking tattoos, and being happy. In the parallel world, the self on this side smiled and watched the master's speech at the reception in the big city, while on the other side he was swaying in the night market in the town with his slippers and floral shirt. Under the same bright moon, he came out of the office to work overtime, raised his head and let out a sigh of relief. He was spitting on Xiaohe boredly on the stone bridge under the moon. The white-collar girl from the cooperative company was about to leave MSN, and the young girl from the neighbor suddenly brought over some of her own sauerkraut. On weekends, college classmates meet at the bar and theater, and a few best friends who grew up bare-ass instigated them to go to the provincial capital to buy a batch of goods. How can the world be satisfied?
How to find that happy balance.
How to find that happy balance.
Extended Reading
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Janet: You still leaving tomorrow.
Bill Kincaid: I think so.
Janet: I'll miss you.
Bill Kincaid: And we barely know each other.
Janet: "You have not known what you are. You have slumbered upon yourself all your life. Your eyelids have been the same as closed most of the time. What you have done returns already in mockeries. The mockeries are not you. Underneath them, and within them, I see you lurk."
Bill Kincaid: [absorbing what she'd just quoted] Who was that?
Janet: Walt Whitman.
Bill Kincaid: I don't think I ever imagined hearing him recited to me by a girl gutting a 40 pound catfish.
Janet: That's exactly how he should be recited. He wrote without rhyme or meter. Free verse. Just whatever he felt inside coming out in one intricate rhythm. Pure unashamed passion, without definable restriction.
Bill Kincaid: I'm sorry, see, I have a few issues with that.
Janet: Why?
Bill Kincaid: Because some have dared to suggest that even poetry has rules.
Janet: Or you make your own.
Bill Kincaid: Right there, that's the part I never bought into.
Janet: Because?
Bill Kincaid: If everybody runs around making their own rules, how can you ever find what's true? There's nothing... there's nothing to rely on.
Janet: "One night, I split my cicada skin, devoured your leaves, knowing no poison, no law of nourishment in that larval blindness, a hunger finally true."
Bill Kincaid: Who's that?
Janet: That's me.
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Brady Kincaid: I ain't gonna manufacture or purvey anything that I ain't gonna ingest into my own sweet self.