You, I think it's been a long time since you wrote a letter. Write to someone you like, confess to them; write to someone you feel sorry for, apologize; write to your caring friends, tell them about your recent situation... Of course, I know that you have written all of these before, but you didn't persist. You still like to write your diary in the form of letters, using the so-called second person. In high school, whenever there was nothing to do during evening self-study, you would write diary entries one by one, and show the ones you were satisfied with to your favorite friends. Looking at their eyes passing through your words, page by page, you wished for a moment of pause, a moment of surprise and joy to show from their stern expressions. You hoped that they would look at you with a different perspective, as long as it was different.
But why isn't it me? Why is the person you expect again and again not me? Why do you believe that only those people are worth writing something about, expressing something to? Can't I be one of them? Clearly, in my eyes, you are the most unique.
I have met a hundred poets, consulted a thousand teachers, greeted tens of thousands of children with different expressions, brushed past millions of people bustling in the city, seen a hundred million different postures, men and women of all ages, from all corners of the world, friendly, irritable, petty, slick, dull, diligent people, confident, fearless, conceited ordinary people. But I never thought you would be someone like you.
I have heard hundreds and thousands of people who have written their stories on paper, rehearsing the tragic songs of fate, heard about Odysseus breaking free from the sailors' tightly bound ropes in the enchanting songs of the Sirens, unable to extricate himself from the most comforting and exciting heavenly sounds; heard about Oedipus, in the midst of the arrangements of fate, wandering and accidentally killing his old father in the chariot, being crowned king after solving the Sphinx's riddle, and thus coincidentally marrying his own mother; heard about the kid in the next class who excels in math, physics, and chemistry, and is skilled in music, chess, calligraphy, and painting, also heard about friends who have found happiness together, a perfect match. But I never imagined that you would live in this world like this.
You, what are you doing? What are you thinking? What should you do in the future? How was your day today? You always like to write like this, making everything about you, the good and the bad, all about me. But you clearly know that you are you, you are confused, sad, joyful, carefree, crazy, dull, wooden, crying, laughing, running. Lazy you, procrastinating you, always thinking randomly. I want to tell you, every time you write, it's not for someone to read, not to be judged by someone, not to hope for someone to understand. Every time you say "you," you are not speaking to a stranger in the future, nor to a dear friend of yours. I know, if you are writing for me to see, to tell me.
Let me tell you about my life, the person I both hate and love the most in this world is you. From the moment I was born, I had the fate of staying with you in this body that you find ridiculous and pathetic, and yet, it is the warmest place for me. When I was young, we shared countless heart-pounding secrets together. You told me the names of one person after another who entered your little world, told one story after another that happened around you. When I dreamt, I would gradually erase the embarrassing and unpleasant parts that made you uncomfortable, and only recite the most interesting and touching ones to you. As I grew up, I accompanied you through one terrible cold night after another, watched the antics of your companions with you, and wrote each stroke of your words. Because I love you so much.
Every time, yes, every time, it was me who made you make one reluctant decision after another. When you refused to run, I ran for you; when you didn't like to think, I taught you; when you hated your weak and timid expression, I let you cry out recklessly; when you were in pain and couldn't speak, I let you suffer in the cold night; when you achieved something, full of ambition, I let you taste the taste of falling. Because I hate you, hate that you imprisoned me in this empty and shabby room, hate that you showed me the colorful clouds in the long sky, hate that you made me taste all the ups and downs of the world without being able to escape.
You never really understood me, that's why you never wrote me a letter, right? Sigh. If, if we could separate, it would be better. Then I could clearly see you and you could see me. See how I struggle to grow, see how my life jumps so vividly and joyfully in your left chest, see my fierce eyebrows, see my determined eyes. See how much I hate you, do you understand? I wish there was another me in this world who could immediately stand in front of me, and I would slap you to the ground like a mother slapping her child, scold you, peel off your flesh with a knife, drink the blood in your heart, and at the same time, I also want to hug you, tell you that I'm here when you're lonely, when you're lost. Don't be afraid, really. I'm right here, inside your left chest, jumping happily. I want to love you like a mother, care for you, give you the highest honor in the world, give you warm nobility, give you a century-long silent drama, silently and quietly stay with you in this empty body, waiting for tomorrow, when everyone dies, when everyone wakes up.
When you wake up, remember the letters I wrote to you, and as a reward, treat me to the best breakfast in the school cafeteria.