A Few Things During the Day
Since coming home, I’ve barely gone out. Every day I do very little—nothing but going online, reading, and cooking. My daytime activities are casual and relaxed. Around nine or ten in the morning, though the dream has ended, my body is still lazy. No intention of getting up suddenly, I roll around in bed. After waiting a bit to wake up, I fumble for my phone, open Weibo, and dazedly watch the information loading circle spin round and round. After a long time, loading completes—no eye-catching news like someone’s death confirmed, no plane crash, no bridge collapse—then I realize, another ordinary day…
I myself don’t particularly like eating congee. Plus, due to the bad habit I developed at school, breakfast has always been convenient. There are many things at home like black sesame paste, instant soy milk, nutritious oatmeal, and instant coffee. After getting up, I make a cup, and that’s considered having breakfast. Another reason for eating this way is that my parents often go out early. Even if they cook, no one eats on time. Gradually, breakfast is rarely made. Often it’s steamed buns or bread with a drink. This perfectly suits my dietary preferences, and I don’t have to be woken up to eat breakfast—killing two birds with one stone.
Among several things, going online is my main occupation. I don’t browse the entire web. There are only a few websites I frequently visit. After a simple breakfast, after checking Weibo I browse Douban, after Douban I read blogs. Today’s news scrolls by. Although I understand how many things in the world have nothing to do with me—they are actors, I’m the audience—even if I don’t watch the world’s laughter and play for a day, a month, or even a year, I can still live normally. But I can’t control myself and only unconsciously check them; otherwise I feel empty inside. It seems I understand—my eyes are occupied by them because of emptiness. Only by closing them can I see myself clearly. Close my eyes, take a deep breath. My heart is full of anxiety; the air inhaled into my lungs desperately wants to erupt.
As for reading, it’s often on summer afternoons. There’s no expected silence—there’s construction piling sounds, car engine roars, and children’s fighting. Holding a newly bought book with only a shallow crease on the cover, I read very slowly, not meeting expectations. So I console myself: don’t be greedy when reading, don’t be eager for quick success, don’t swallow dates whole, seeking thorough understanding is best. Though that’s what I say, I can’t fool my heart. Excellence comes from diligence; I waste time on play.
Because my mom has to work, alternating day and night shifts, sometimes lunch, sometimes dinner—my dad has entrusted it all to me. Washing green onions, cutting ginger, crushing garlic, steaming rice, boiling noodles, stir-frying dishes, washing pots, washing dishes, taking out trash—all these matters are numerous and complicated. My dad loves to eat, needs to add this, needs to add that—very different from my life philosophy. I like things simpler, don’t pursue luxurious flavors, prefer boiling over stir-frying, add seasonings sparingly. If I have the chance to live alone, regarding food, it would probably be very simple.
It’s midnight again, time to return to dreams. Time to sleep.