When Our Enemy Falls Asleep - Khi Ke Thu Ta Buon Ngu

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This will also grant relief from inner pressure applied by the savage and tyrannical judgment of the collective. We can provide complete minds in the form of fresh foodstuffs; that is to say, not yet ground up by censorship. However, the majority of people still like eating spoiled, blue-black stinking food — all while continuing to believe in a fresh new world. Supplying a full esthetics during gestation and after is crucial. It enhances a brightness of ideology and the ability to be enlightened spiritually.

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Experts recommend eating fortifying books at least twice per week, along with partaking of oil paintings as much as possible. Nevertheless, most still think of Vietnam as a poetic, culturally rich country with several thousand years of civilization…this has resulted in clotting, along with severe aesthetic malnutrition. Damn, it leaves me speechless. Along the hill running to the river the flight path at arrival time. However, once these sessions are done, the girls again don blue jeans and t-shirts, text their friends where to meet for coffee, and put on a helmet often with a hole cut out for their ponytail before zipping off on mopeds.

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This was the Vietnam I wanted to see in translations, the one that pays homage to the past while never forgetting that most daily life involves haggling, cell phones, traffic jams, and trying to get a leg up in the midst of an industrial revolution and Market Leninism aka capitalism. Instead, I found reconciliation projects.

While these have great value, they are the vision of a generation that is not mine, nor that of most Vietnamese. It is a young and hopeful population that looks to the future, not the past. Perhaps this is my failing, that poems filled with lotus and harmony do not match my preoccupations, whereas those populated with construction workers, motorbikes, and censorship do.

After all, that is the Vietnam I mostly experienced. But one must be preoccupied, passionate even, if one is to go through all the trouble of translating a text. You must. It hurriedly churns like the inside of a hummingbird. Furthermore, I want to take part in making it happen. I would like the privilege of standing side-by-side with those like him in this fight. Newsletter Signup.

Thổn thức cho Việt Nam

From boiling to being boiled All anyone thinks about is boiling All households compete for Best Boilers All professions boil with emulation… The only reason why I myself am boiled: so as not to be boiled. All who re-use should be responsible and apply with care 1. I was so happy walking back to the hostel on cobblestoned pavements, listening to the sounds my shoes made, enjoying the crispy cold weather of the city.

I was happy and did not think a second about the Chinese guy, who I know on the bus from Strasbourg to Prague. When I managed to come on board, almost missing the bus, there was only one seat left, next to the guy. Later, when the light was off, I looked furtively at his phone and knew that he is Chinese.

He went to sleep while I did not, even a wink. It was early morning when we were arriving in Prague. I asked him if he was travelling alone or with someone else, and for how long he would stay. It turned out that, by coincidence, he was going alone and would leave the same day as I would.

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And so we became companions, going to main sites of interest, having lunch and dinner, all together, although I did not have internet connection when I was out, thus I lost trace of him when we were visiting the Czech National Museum. Later that night, I was lost in the Old Town, as it always happens to clumsy me, on the way to see him for dinner. I broke my recently-bought vape, which later I brought back to France and even to Scotland, just for nothing. Why did I do that? I was lost and perplexed, looking at the paper map but could not figure it out. In the end, I found him, about to leave his hostel because he had been waiting for almost an hour.

We were talking while discovering the city, about almost everything, about his and my studies in France, he told me about Lyon, the French city he was living, his trip to Strasbourg, about Beijing, his hometown, about Chinese politics and about how much he wants to go to Britain to do further studies. We were also talking about Chinese language, and he told me many interesting things about Chinese etymology.

He also has the idea that Indo-European languages are expressed through grammar while Chinese is expressed mainly through the intrinsic meanings of words, and that explains why in Chinese there is a lack of many grammatical features that Indo-European languages have, thus makes the former easier in terms of grammar. Then I, pretending to take pictures of the stall, managed to have his in my phone. And in the Old Square I saw a boy with inexplicable melancholy whose face I cannot remember now. Then I came back to the hostel and tried to read. After a while, I was struck by the beauty of the guy in the hostel room, who has an English gentleman-like air about him but who turns out to be Polish, who made me wonder what one can do when one has so little time and still is limited by social etiquette, and that if there is no etiquette ever in the world, I would come over and ask to kiss him.

We went out, we drank and talked about everything on Earth, about our family and love history.

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At three in the morning, we paid and said goodbye with a kiss. I often wonder, sometimes to the point of self-criticism, that what is left after a trip besides a few photos, some fragmented, mosaic memories about it, while I do not even remember names of guys I sleep with, in their houses or in their cars. What is left after all? He texted me to ask how long I would be there and after I told him, he bought a ticket to Rome to see me the last time before coming back to the States.

We had three hours, which was too short, but by a strange driving force, we all took our time to walk through the city, Rome bathed in golden sunlight, to have lunch at his favourite restaurant and a coffee at the train station before he left to the airport where he would take his flight to New York. At the station I stood for a while, delighted and sad and perplexed about our last kiss, watching him walking through the stance into the crowd, too slow to take a picture of him with his back towards me, terrified to move, to go out there back to Rome, to reality.

enter site In the end, I left, I had to leave, as what can one do if not leaving? Yes, my life is going on, I told myself.

It was so much like a dream, surreal and almost unbelievable, from which I do not want to wake up. I came back to France, excited yet at the same time intimidated to go to Scotland, to start a new semester.

And at the moment, I am grateful to all the guys that I have met, some of them still keep in touch with me, sometimes ask me if I am doing well, how my life in Scotland is, how my studies are going, so on and on; some, by hitting likes on my new posts on Instagram and Facebook, keep watching me, in silence, as I go away, having a new leg of my life, far and different from theirs; some keep inviting me to go back to their countries; some, like Alexandre, Sophian and Ruaridh, stop talking to me after our first rendez-vous because they do not see a common future between us, as, it seems to me, even the knowledge of my existence on Earth, and the fact that we have met, disturb and hurt them a great deal; with some, we make plans, they tell me that they will come to Scotland to see me, or we will spend this upcoming summer together, those plans that depend so much on me, and that, I believe, will never become true in foreseeable future.

For some, I imagine, I will be the crazy, weird Asian guy who slept with them once and for all, who left and never come back. Will they, in a far corner of their mind or in a flashback, think about me and the night we spent with each other? I wonder, just for the sake of it, because I never, and will not ever, expect them to do so. I appreciate the moments, the experiences that they give me, the experiences which change me every day without my awareness of the effects, without my concious memories of them.

My semester in France finished, quite a long time ago. In the end, I did not do the assignments for other courses which I also went to to audit, which are about American literature and classical Greek literature. I also have grades for all of them as well, it is a final touch, as if now I am done with France.

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They are not too good, but still not too bad, and more than that, they are surprising. I had lower marks in courses to which I did pay much attention and enjoyed and better in those which were, for me, either too boring or too hard.

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In Spanish, I got better for advanced class than more basic one. Here I am only taking two literary courses Contemporary Canon and Problems of Identity, the two most demanding, unwise me! Even so I hardly do anything for Spanish. It seems to me that everyone is a genius, they manage to take classes, do homework, join a few clubs and societies, go to the beach, travel around Scotland every weekend, go to workshops and cinemas, balls and events. To finish the reading list, for me, is already a challenge. Every time I try to join the others in my class here, either in the street or in bars and restaurants, after a while, I would find myself ending up being alone, left out.

If Safaa were there, that would never have happened. Whilst in France, most professors will read from their materials, or their own books and students take note, in Scotland you have more freedom and are expected to participate in debates though with some professors, I daresay, it is not debate in the right sense of the word. Some of them are encouraging and open-minded, some are not, by any means.