Become a Passerby Heroine

As the new book continues to be difficult to deliver, I promised the editor-in-chief that the book will definitely be released this month. Although I am still confident that what I write will definitely be welcomed by readers, I can't find the feeling I want. restless.

There are two types of writing, one is written for general readers, and the other is of course written for oneself.

Needless to say what kind of text the former is, it must be full of joy and fun. I just want to write text that brings happiness to readers, even if my mood is extremely bad at the time.

Even though the heart is full of scars, the words under the pen are still full of flowers.

That's what it takes to be a commercial writer.

Now I want to write some words for myself, without worrying about other things. I want to find the feeling of falling in love with words again, and at the same time calm down the anxiety and apprehension before opening a new book.

For this reason, I spent the whole night flipping through the things I wrote ten years ago, almost all of which were written for myself. From the beginning, I was embarrassed to see my scalp numb, and then the whole person seemed to be immersed in an indescribable emotion. among.

Ten years ago, the word "sadness" was always indispensable in my writing. If I had to add an attributive to this word, it would definitely be "bright sadness", the kind of hypocrisy overflowing from the paper , It was the reason why I was so embarrassed to see my scalp go numb.

If these words were written by someone else, then I must be positive on the surface for his ability to pile up rhetoric, saying that his writing skills are still good, but of course I will crazily laugh at this person in my heart. If this person wants to write online articles, then I am sure Sit and wait for him to hit his head and bleed.

In order to prove that I am not asserting indiscriminately, I am going to extract some nonsensical modern poems I wrote ten years ago. At that time, my dream was really to be a poet and essayist.

"The Edge of Emptiness and Reality"——The blade of time is perfectly sharp/Separate my soul from my body/On the edge of virtuality and reality/I am reality/You are a dream/My body is as stiff as ice/Your soul is as soft as tenderness Water/I always whip myself with cruelty/Keep moving forward, keep my feet on the ground/I don't care about you, because of your lofty sentiments/You are always with me/I put you stranded in the polished mirror/It is the edge of the virtual and the real / You smiled and watched me hurry / I suddenly fantasized about the moment of reunion with you / Stretched out my hand / I found you and I could meet again / But there was a barrier in the middle / Time ages at the speed of light / The blade of time has polished this mirror / I I know you won't leave / but after all it's just a virtual image

Of course, I felt awkward reading this modern poem at first, probably because I wrote a lot of popular things, and when I read the ungrounded poetry and prose, I felt that they were too hypocritical and boring, and from a commercial point of view, Criticize them for nothing.

Perhaps in this era, only those poems and prose written by great writers who have achieved great success can be bought by others, but the other party may not buy them for reading, but put them on the bookshelf purely as an ornament.

However, as my scalp continued to tingle, I realized that being a person has been awkward for a long time. After I got used to it, that kind of embarrassment is really sour. Logic, that mentally handicapped refreshing feeling, can make people catch up with the latest update in one go.

I think I was too harsh on myself ten years ago, and I felt as if I had trampled on his youth whose inner drama was so much that it would make my scalp tingle ten years later.

His youth was really worthless, full of loneliness and sadness, every single word was the truest portrayal of his heart, but ten years later, he would take it out and whip his corpse severely.

He died unconsciously in the process of growing up, as if the virtual and the real had merged into one.

No matter what kind of truth he is familiar with, he can't relieve the sorrow caused by his death. No matter how much philosophy, sincerity, tenacity, and tenderness, he can't relieve this sorrow.

The only thing I can do is to break free from this sadness and understand some kind of philosophy from it. And any philosophy after comprehension is so weak and powerless in the face of the unexpected sorrow that follows.

I listened closely to the sound of the waves and the wind in the dark night. At this time, I was so rational that I felt horrible. In this dark night when no one is there, I will not have anyone to accompany me. After all, life is a field that has nothing to do with anyone. Practice alone.

The feeling of letting the words pour out from the pen does not make me happy at the moment, what is just endless melancholy, maybe at this moment, the dead him was resurrected in my numb body for a short time, that’s why Let the rational me become a little emotional.

I don't know if it will be ten years later, when I look at myself now, when I write words, my scalp will still feel numb again. I only know that at this moment, I use this article to suppress everything that will affect The distracting thoughts of my new work calm down the loss in my heart.

It turns out that the writer's soul is wrapped in eternal loneliness, and expecting someone to understand and tolerate is nothing but a dream that is doomed to disillusionment. The existence that can be relied on and trusted can only be words.

Before opening a new book, I need to spend five or six hours a day, like today, looking for such a feeling with great concentration. At this moment, I only belong to words.

Just like ten years ago.