It's been a long time since I picked up a pen, but my thoughts haven't stopped for a day. Is there anything you want to say to yourself? There are many things. Is the interaction between people either mundane and decadent in long days, or only in those crucial moments? Where is my path? Where is the path of many people in the world? Is giving up oneself and reality really a form of liberation?
My heart is empty, and the words I just wrote feel like fleeting wind. Today is a day without joy or sorrow. I have little desire to express myself, feeling like an elderly person in the stumbling words.
Is this really how you are? Do you want to become like this?
I don't care about my own feelings, even self-abandonment. If someone can find happiness by taking something from me, then let them. I feel that "self" is ultimately a deception. What do I like? Who do I like to be with? How do I feel comfortable? What here is created for other purposes, what is designed by others for their own purposes, and what is truly what I want? These are questions worth reflecting on for me. I dare not make a firm decision, to determine a person I like, a life I like. Maybe I feel they are all the same, apples may not be better than pears, this person may not be better than that person, and this life may not be more comfortable than that life. Maybe I'm quite confused. In this age of countless eyes watching, my likes are easily tamed by others. There are countless products, countless merchants waiting for me in "liking". Maybe I'm afraid of losing. Once I choose one, I can't choose others. Who can guarantee that I will choose the best one? Liking is difficult for me. If others' likes are so simple and can be satisfied by me, then of course I am willing. As someone who doesn't have their own, I dream of contributing my physical and mental strength to the world without compensation, becoming a biological battery, a red blood cell of the social organism. However, this seems incomplete. I have another desire, a desire to still survive, still have to think and live in my own way after giving up everything. That seems to prove that I truly have myself. That seems to prove that there is a part of me that others cannot take away.
Does this world want me to be like this? Does it want me to become like this?
I don't like the artificial part of this world. It seems that it is not open for me, but deliberately shows that appearance. This world is so tired, and I dare not ask for more. On the platform built by everyone, I worry that it will collapse on important days. This world is so eager for development, for interests, for glamour. I always anxiously watch its outcome, hoping it won't leave behind too many people who walk with it.
I don't like people, I don't like their stereotypical appearance. Maybe my eyes are not good, that's why I see people like that. I think I don't need it, I don't need an image, a symbolized armor to hide myself. Although, such a long self-expression is just another cumbersome self-concealment.
I won't say anymore. I hope that the bits and pieces of longing can lift my life to the sky. Maybe I will feel a little happier with the next rain. I'll write fewer of these boring words.