trying to be philosophical in chinese

纽约的四周有很久潜伏着春的气息。

三月的一天，走在微寒的街上，突然闻到雨的味道，其间夹有淡淡的花粉香气，尽管还未看见新绿的影子。就是这么突然，希望回来了。纽约的冰冷融化了，藏了一秋一冬的石头开始解冻。

春爆发在四月二十七。 一夜之间天地绿了，是水灵灵的绿 - 雨滴飘洒于树丛之间，呼吸的空气是清凉的。

二十岁生日那天，有过莫名的慌乱。二零零七曾是遥不可及的一年。我的外公死于一九九八年十二月 。我的童年死于同年同月。一夜之间，我失去了家的概念，似乎被连根拔起，抛落于一个陌生的世界之中。九年之间，充溢的是争扎彷惶与寻找。而至今找到的不是家，抑或是童年的零点，而是更多的不可知。

人的情感很奇妙，会有大喜大悲，似乎总是不断循环往复。少年时期，竟已想着要看破红尘，清灯古佛直至终老。如今，七八年前的抱负哲学梦想都记不清楚了。爱上博尔赫斯笔下的猫，永远活在生命中可触的一刻。 暮然回首，记忆拼出的道路杂乱无章，儿时坚信的零点已消失不见。

曾想过，也许人的每分每秒都在死去，一生中重生亿万次。这是存在主义的哲学 - 如此，人生岂不有无限可能？但也许我们更像黑格尔哲学中的火凤凰，重生于灰烬之间， 然而仍保有我们与生俱来的灵魂精华(essence of the Spirit) - 隐藏在最深处的内心角落中燃烧发亮。我过往二十年生命的逻辑性些许蕴含在时间，性格，和环境的隐秘奇异的环环相扣之间, 被一缕微妙的灵魂精华牵引前行。

但是我不信黑格尔哲学中所谓的 "progress" 和他所崇奉的完美与完整。从生至死，流水落花的薄薄一章而已。 如所 Jacques Derrida 说，死亡原本毫无意义，何必牵强附会？人的意识最终会随死亡分散消亡。世界和未来从不属于人类，我们最终只是昙花一现。因此，永恒只能存于一刻之中，却不可能存有永恒的永恒。而正是如此我愈加感恩于我活着，并感恩于人类的渺小与脆弱，因为爱的力量迸发与对失去的恐惧。

在飞絮纷乱如鹅毛大雪的天气中我深呼吸，让春恣意侵袭我的意识，尽管冬的威胁并不遥远。

chinese essay, need ending, better arrangement of stories; writing drives me mad

no one updates anymore/ to be continued, possibly

The miracle of a blank canvas. I take my imaginary pen, mark my territory with nimble fingers flashing across the keyboard.

I live along the silence of wind howling between two slender Trump buildings, triumphant, handsome phallic symbols that sprout up in Manhattan like bamboo shoots. I am bitter because my room no longer has a view, and I curl up on the windowsill and die slowly, naked and sad, accompanied by a million windows that stare at me with infinitely melancholic eyes.

I will be twenty, and I think of myself as being twenty. I have lived long, 7300 days, and I have accomplished nothing. Other than the fact that I have now gathered the courage to venture into liquor stores, stern, lips pursed, savoring bottles of coffee liquor or clear, Alaskan-glacier-like vodka with my eyes until I hear a distant police car mount its sirens and chase me and my wits back into the wintery streets of drudgery and nothingness.

I am an optimist, a pessimist. The pessimist takes reins now, and he has beautiful white teeth, and a love of sex. The pessimist sits in the Hungarian pastry shop and stirs the remarkable fragrance of peppermint tea until he dissolves with the silver spoon into the solemn shape of the St. John’s cathedral, where he, younger, equally hopeless, had always wandered under the gaze of God at lunchtime, during which he had no friends.

the state of my mind

The biggest difference is the transparency of blue skies against the metallic enclosure of train material, and the contrast drowns me within the soft rhythm of the jerking of the train. But I see poetry here; in the fluidity of space and scenery I sit still as the world passes me by, and I move involuntarily towards an invisible point that promises to prove ultimate progress while uneasiness slowly sinks in echoing its turn-of-the-twentieth-century counterparts. Through the obscure tunnels that pierce the underground of the bustling streets of New York City, mysterious familiarity lurks, reminiscent of childhood pastimes of H.G. Wells readings. Yet there is another world that penetrates equally deeply along the winding walls in which sparks explode, lit by the oxygen of surrounding darkness [I will write until I find the pages swollen with non-substantial material that reflects the voluminous emptiness within consisting of a million dragonflies of illusions lighting up the barren landscape of an ever-approaching winter. This is not optimism]. But it is not optimism.

Democrats Has the House!

Now is it too much to ask for the Senate too?