I want a hug. Pronto.
...
Why is it that only Chinese passages can stir so much emotion from me? The last week was an essay on how all teachers should be respected and kids not allowed to comment even though they're absolutely useless. That elicited fury and ire, as well as mild irritation at the naivete and bias of the author.
This week's passage is about books. Literature. How a good book is like a good friend, never changing, always there for you in your lowest lows.
I disagree. How can friends remain unchanged? People change all the time, and yes I did change. Some people change for the better, causing the friendship to be stronger. Others change for the worse, causing tattered strings of friendship lying in the wake of photographs and deleted reminders.
I don't know. Maybe husbands and wives don't change overnight. Perhaps the logic of this statement is all about honesty: If a person was honest and revealed their true selves, there won't be much changing, and if there's any change, you'll change together, causing the effect of disorientation to be negated.
But people change. Everyone changes. So please don't tell me 'Friends Forever' next time, because forever, well, it isn't eternity is it? Forever transcends human time and memories, it goes beyond human lifespans and remembrances of promises. Don't give me hope, I'd rather live without any. If you choose to dispense such genorosity, keep to your promise.
Friends Forever. Just a catchphrase of the moment, the appeal to another's heart, the abosolute certainity in that short span of your human existence. Something you utter, like 'I love you', but don't really mean it. How many times have you said it to others? How many times was it scrawled in a foetal position, clawing at a yearbook?
My friends now may not be my friends in the future, we'll be nothing more than strangers in the vast world of human faces. Another name of the past, another significance in my development, but nothing solid, just wisps of memories to last us. In the end, we're left with nothing. Someday we might grow old and even forget kith and kin. Nothing. We have nothing.
...Unless you're rich enough to afford luxurious healthcare and a nice funeral, but how much of it can you take with you? Chance are that you'll be too heady with the various medicines to notice the enviroment you're in. Whether you're living in gold with leather sofas and Godiva chocolates or in the sewer, it makes no difference when you're knocking at death's door. You are not rich or poor, man or woman, white, black, gay, stupid, insane-- no labels. You are just the dying, or the dead.
Nothing. We all expunge from memories.
This is how I will die. This is how you will die. Alone.
Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate. (Abandon all hope, ye who enter here).
You might want to make a quick escape from the depression of my words, for I might very well drive you insane. Go.
