Who's Bad

For a week I've been occupied by endless work. It is very ironic in a way that, after leaving the company, I have all the time to myself, to work.
Gradually I turned. Before, I tried to pose a cool image as a person that mourns not. Now, I know that I have every right to mourn, but I don't have to. It's my choice. Sometimes I can't help it. My friends, in times as such, are doomed. I could be very needy and bitchy, just like what Simon and Garfunkel sang, "I was so hard to please." Sometimes I think the best I can do is to not disturb others. It's na?ve, I know. But just let me indulge myself a little bit.
Recently the translation is getting better. It goes faster, and the quality more satisfactory. Little by little I regain the feeling of using Chinese, refined Chinese. Nevertheless I loose my English, as you can see here on this wasted blog. Yet it sort of feels good. I even recall the feeling of writing when I was in my teenage. Then, I used to write with all my intelligence and feelings. Put all myself into words. It was my way of resisting the pressure from the environment, I suppose. But after entering different stages of life, the world seems to change, and one reacts with different strategy, unconsciously. I can't even remember when I stopped writing. In fact I was never an active writer. I simply use the opportunity—when asked to write, I write not in response to the demand but for myself. It turned out fine, always, as long as I didn't reveal the dark side, if there's any. After attending the college, I left that and turned to other things. Years after I got used to the rhythm of the music, changing scenes of the cinema, beats of techno, euphoriant feelings with ecstasy, trembling of a touch, but not writing. I produced many words in academia, but that was full of argumentation and logic, nothing from my heart. Seeing from it now, how could one live in this manner?
But I do know that lots of people do. Yi just left, he was torn by two lovers (well, I live partly in songs). From his story I recognize myself, as different characters in that complicated story. How lucky I am that I haven't been a manic-depressive psychosis patient.

I started this note with the feeling as U2 conveyed in their song Bad. Just a part share with you here. (Oh, Bono is a killer, with his voice.)
If you should ask then maybe they'd
Tell you what I would say
True colors fly in blue and black
Bruised silken sky and burning flag
Colors crash, collide in blood shot eyes
If I could, you know I would
If I could, I would Let it go...
This desperation
Dislocation
Separation
Condemnation
RevelationIn
temptation
Isolation
Desolation
Let it go
And so fade away
To let it go
And so fade away
To let it go
And so to fade away
I'm wide awake
I'm wide awake
Wide awake
I'm not sleeping