Another thing I’ve been thinking about these days is this: what if I live as if I were living alone? Technically speaking, I’m not living alone. There is one more person in this house and that person is not going anywhere. I know. But maybe I’ve been relying on this person a bit too much. Relying, that is, in the sense of relying on him to lessen my sense of boredom. Say, what if I don’t ask him what he is doing when I don’t know what I should do? And what if I don’t ask him if he’d like to go out with me, while instead, I’ll head out straightly on my own? Wouldn’t that be cool? It’s not like he’ll oppose this (and most likely he’ll support this idea) and I’ll also have to force myself to care for myself, by, for example, thinking about what I can do. This is what I mean by living as if I were living alone.

This should be something great to try.

I’ve also been dictated by all the produce in the fridge. I bought too many vegetables in the past two weeks, and there is still much meat in the freezer as well. Right now, cooking seems more like a race, in which I work frantically hard to outrun the speed of vegetables going bad. I certainly don’t enjoy this feeling… On the one hand, I don’t like being dictated by anything, let alone food. I’d like to be able to cook whatever I want to cook. On the other hand, being pressured to consume the produce in the fridge also deprives me of the opportunity to buy new food – doing grocery shopping is an important means for me to keep my sanity.

I’m also aware of how critical I’ve been to my English writings. I’m highly aware that I don’t write like a native speaker, because I don’t think in English and I am not a native speaker. Whenever I can’t find the right way to put my thoughts into sentences, I’m frustrated, and whenever I can’t remember the right term to describe something, I’m again frustrated. Why am I not enjoying writing as I used to be when I was younger? Because writing now represents an experience of continuous frustration. Why would any sane person want to seek for frustration? It’s not like there’s gonna be any payoff either. Then why am I still writing? Because I’m insane？ Because I know if I don’t practice, my English writing skills will only get worse.

In the spirit of encouraging oneself, I’d like to at least acknowledge the fact that I’ve been writing, I’ve been trying, regardless of how little gain there is. Keep writing, perhaps one day I’ll write like a native. Keep writing and reading, perhaps one day I’ll remember the terms I want to say effortlessly. For now, I just want to say I’ve identified the reason for my feeling less motivated to write.