#20

The proverbial banana mentality replays itself again.

As I sat on the bed with a stack of magazines and one oddly Chinese, it dawned upon me how intrusive Chinese writing can be: The comprehension of content (or lack thereof) aside, it seems these little strokes are compressed within its invisible sqaurish boundary: cold, cutting, incisive. Each character aloof to its counterpart as they extend towards a piece of blockish scrawl. There isn't the effusive free-forming continuity I'd find in alphabetic scripts -- in writing Chinese I am forced to meticulously place every stroke, examine it before I continue; it is loopless, apathetic, static; intrusive. It mocks my train of thought with its form (and my identity with its heritage).

Chinois or not, my roots make me very sleepy.