19 posts tagged with "existentialism"

Old Zhou felt he was living like a potted plant. Not the meticulously pruned, zen-like kind, but one simply stuck in soil, placed on a windowsill, given a bit of water regularly, and nothing more. The "soil" was the Sunshine Nursing Home, the "water" was the three daily meals of mush, pills, and the occasional smile from a caregiver. Outside the windowsill was, theoretically, the world. But separated by a layer of smudged glass and a gleaming stainless steel railing, that world became like a landscape painting on TV – distant and unreal.

The railings were installed uniformly last year, supposedly for safety. The director spent an hour spitting saliva at the all-residents meeting, the main theme being: this thing will prevent you from falling. Old Zhou, dozing off below, thought, falling? From this third-floor height, not too high, not too low, falling would most likely just mean breaking a few bones, then lying in bed, becoming an even more standard potted plant. What really irked him was that the gleaming railing, like prison bars, constantly reminded him: you are penned in.

The news came on the radio while I was cooking pasta. Not any special kind of pasta, just the most ordinary type, with canned tomato sauce from the supermarket, sprinkled with some powdered cheese. Outside, a light but steady rain was falling. April rain, carrying a sticky feeling that washes everything yet washes nothing away. The announcer, in a well-trained, emotionless tone, reported: "Gold prices plummeted sharply again today..." followed by a string of numbers and analysis, sounding like signals from a distant planet, utterly unrelated to the steaming pasta in my pot.

Xiao Li's electric scooter, like a weary beetle, navigated the canyons formed by the city's steel and glass. A new order popped up on his phone screen, marked 'Priority Delivery' in golden font. The address was an old, dilapidated residential complex he'd never been to—'Rosemary Garden'. The remarks section held just a few simple words: "Urgent medicine, please be as quick as possible, thank you."

He expertly picked up the package from a brightly lit chain pharmacy. The pharmacist handed him a small, sealed paper bag. It was light, seemingly containing only one box of medicine. He glanced at the electronic waybill: recipient name 'Mr. K,' no specific apartment number, just a unit number: 'Unit 3, top floor.' The pharmacy's lighting was stark white, making the pharmacist's face resemble a blurred mask.

When Mr. K received the document, he was scraping the last bit of oatmeal from the bottom of his bowl with a spoon. The postman hadn't even knocked; the thick, beige envelope, bearing some sort of official seal, seemed to have materialized out of thin air on the doormat, exuding a characteristic archive room scent – a mixture of stale paper and dried ink. He couldn't even recall if he had heard footsteps.

April First hadn't arrived yet, but the air was already permeated with a scent of uncertainty. Like accidentally knocking over a pepper shaker, fine particles hung everywhere, ready to make you sneeze abruptly. My cat had been missing for three days. He wasn't the type to run away from home; he always slept in his fixed spot on the sofa or, when I listened to Bill Evans records, tapped the floor lightly with the tip of his tail, marking an almost inaudible beat. This time, he just vanished, without even a farewell meow.

I made coffee as usual, watching the hot water slowly seep through the coffee grounds, dark brown liquid dripping into the glass pot. Outside the window, the sky was that typical, characterless city grey. Maybe the cat just got tired of this grey and went looking for a patch of real, green grass. There was no basis for this thought, but it was better than nothing.

When Wang Wei first heard his passport had been "buried," he thought it was a bad joke, or perhaps a mistranslation. He was standing outside the leaky tent at the temporary settlement, trying to glean some news about returning home from the official distributing relief supplies. The earthquake in Myanmar had struck without warning, collapsing buildings and shattering the already fragile lives of many.

I heard the news in a jazz bar. The television was hanging in the corner of the bar, silently playing the news. The anchorwoman had a beautiful face, her lips moving, uttering words like "century baby" and "passed away." I stared at the scrolling subtitles at the bottom of the screen, confirming the authenticity of the news.

Six o'clock sharp. The sky outside the window was like a piece of repeatedly washed, faded blue cloth. I woke up on time, without an alarm. Some gear inside me always meshed precisely at this hour. First, the cat. He's called Mustard, a calico whose fur looks like it's been stained by smoke. He was Zhe's. He jumped onto the bed, nuzzled my cheek with his nose, his throat rumbling like a tractor engine starting up. He never rushes me, just silently reminds me that the new day has begun unloading, whether I'm ready to sign for it or not.

I went to the kitchen to brew coffee. The beans were bought just yesterday, Ethiopian Yirgacheffe, with notes of citrus and flowers, like some distant, vague promise. Zhe liked Blue Mountain; he said its flavor had a sense of order. I don't get it. For me, coffee is just a weapon against the thick drowsiness of morning.

K needed a new piece of clothing. This should have been the most ordinary of things, like eating when hungry, or sleeping when tired. However, as she pushed through the heavy, revolving glass door and stepped into the cold gleam of the department store's interior, an inexplicable premonition gripped her, as if the air was permeated by a subtle yet undeniable rule, one she knew nothing about.