Yes, again. As in, it has happened before, sometime ago.
And it seems that the mood pervades still.
So, what happened was, I was listening to my Formula 17 CD; in particular, the theme song, which I described in yesterday's entry as 'light and carefree and cute'. I was looking at the CD inlay at the same time, so that I knew what the singer was singing. He - whoever he is - pronounces better than Jielun, but still.
But my point is, out of the blue, in the middle of the song, at the line 我想或许会有这么一天 但不在眼前, I started feeling even crappier than I was already feeling.
(Rough translation of the Chinese line above: I think perhaps I have such a day, but it's nowhere in sight.)
Nobody listens to a light-hearted song and gets the urge to cry; that is, nobody but me.
I really don't like tears. For the longest time, I've defined it as a sign of weakness, and the stubborn part of me is still holding on with an iron-tight grip to that flawed definition. But what's to be done about that?
So what was it about then, last night?
The thing about Formula 17 is that it is essentially a comedy about a gay virgin from the South of Taiwan who goes to Taipei in search of true love. And it is precisely his innocent belief in the existence of true love that makes Formula 17 as charming as it is, and also as depressing as it is. 爱是一种信仰; love is a form of faith. 我们没有爱，怎么做啊? How can we make love if we don't have love? (When his Internet friend whom he meets in Taipei suggests to him that they "make love" in his apartment.)
Why is it depressing? Because it is so untainted and uncynical and pure and not me that I can't fucking stand it sometimes. I see myself turning out to be the Richard sort, those who sleep around and run off first thing in the morning. And unlike Richard, who eventually conquers his fear of intimacy, it'll take more than a pure, innocent and cute virgin from Keelung to break the ice that permanently forms a cage around my fucking cursed heart.
Who needs intelligence? Who needs intellect? Who needs cynicism? Who needs to be different from everyone else? Apparently, for as long as I can remember, I do.
Well, fuck you, self. You're stupid and immature and dumb. How I wish I could be that virgin from the village who goes to the city in search for true love and really finds it. But no, that can never be the case again, because I've never lived in a village and I grew up in cities, and because I'm a stupid cynical moron who finds no meaning in life and does not believe in love and somehow this is beginning to bother me, probably because it is further concretising my conviction that life is inherently meaningless and it's irritating to wear the appearance of happiness but to be insidiously breaking apart where no one can see.
Life is capable of inducing only one response in me: So what? The light at the end of the tunnel will not lead you to freedom; it's the lights of an on-coming train. Death. That's the only thing you'd find at the end of the stupid rainbow, not a pot of gold.
I'm too young for this old-woman cynicism but what the hell can I do about it?
And love? The very notion of it still makes me want to laugh hysterically at the poor sods of the world who blindly believe in it.
But if it makes them happy, why not? And so what if such happiness is ultimately idiotic? Why do I have to be so fucking smart and smug all the time? Why can't I be the stupid bimbo who leaves school to be with her boyfriend? That stupid bimbo, unlike me, believes in love, at least.
Love is a form of faith? Dude, what stupid, fucked up drug are you on?
More importantly, can I have some of it?
How I wish I weren't me.
And once again, how I wish I was never born.
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