I realized that today's horribleness could only be adequately described in Chinese. Somehow I felt that writing it down in English would be too shallow, and that would only multiply my misery. Somehow, it felt good to think in Chinese; it was even fun to try to recall how to write certain words. (oops)

A few weeks ago I decided that I'll take up another language after the a's, maybe french, maybe japanese, maybe even something obscure like russian. But I realized it would be a joke if I ignored my mother tongue for a third language.

I guess English is a language for business, and since I'm more proficient at it I've turned it into my language for thinking too. But sometimes when it comes to murkier discussions on other things, Chinese serves better (at least it did for today).

Today I was impressed with the idea that behind every genius (and there are tons of geniuses close at hand) is a sheer lot of hard work and emotional wreckage. Just think of how you've read about famous writers who've reflected about their writing experiences. I think there was this guy, erm, Joseph Conrad, who wrote something and got a nervous breakdown after that because he, well, put so much of himself into writing the book. I'm sounding doubtful on purpose, because I haven't brought myself into believing in something that is worth my sacrifice. Generally, I've realized that I don't believe in (or haven't believed in) true passion. Some people who are apparently passionate have just been shouting for the sake of making themselves heard, camwhoring for the sake of looking entertained themselves, and writing notes just to fill up that empty social circle. I'm very aware that this is a major accusation but I'm speaking from little impressions I've gathered. So it applies to very few people, and very few experiences. Oh and count in the fact that I'm probably referring to people whom I'm not close to, and so I probably have misinterpreted their actions since I don't understand them well anyway. I'm still very sure that there are many genuinely passionate people out there, and I know some of these people myself. And respect them for it. Point is, there is passion, and there is passion.

Sometimes it feels like life is one big facade because I lack it, in its purest form. Now I'm supposed to dedicate all my time into something I believe in but am not passionate about. But that's the way it is, as my mum said, there's not a choice; even she went through the same process. It's quite obvious that practicality should be ranked before vague lofty romantic ambitions I'm not even sure about.

Point being, come back down to earth. This should probably have been the first sentence, that might have saved lots of time.