People who have always felt that people who love writing are happy, and they always have a way to lay out their lives into a beautiful text, like a large silent spring wind or a colorful kite fluttering under the clear blue sky in summer, recording their own days and feelings.
I haven't written anything for a long time, I can't remember, I don't even know how to write, and if I write for the sake of writing, then I'd rather forget the words. I thought I had become dull or numb, or I didn't know how to be moved, but I suddenly found that I was still myself, still a little sensitive, a little sad, and a little happy that others couldn't experience.
Writing is a state of mind, which does not necessarily have to be joyful and sorrowful, let alone profound, perhaps the slight joy of listening to a flower blooming, or the faint lingering and melancholy of looking at the distant spring.
I was suddenly a little depressed today. I didn't know what it was, but I kept asking myself why, and then I realized that maybe it was a mundane nuisance. I can't avoid it, I can't hide, I can't sit in the clouds and look at things in the world from a higher level, so I have ordinary troubles and I have knots in my heart that I can't untie.
But lying in bed, I imagined how many years later, people would have to leave quietly like this, and how many gunsmoke and strife flowers had come and gone without a trace and could not be taken away.
The red stripes come and go without worry, and now there is no worry. When there is an inner disease that invades the crowd like the flu, then what I have to do may not be to lower my body to avoid it, not to inhale the virus and infect others, but to use a stronger self-control to restrain such an invasion and cultivate a body and mind that is invulnerable to all poisons. If you are unfortunate enough to contract the virus, then take advantage of the process of recuperation and enjoy life.
Life is actually a long experience of dialectics, and all destiny is revealed by time. Crying today doesn't mean tomorrow isn't a big smile.
Still thanks to the words, I feel that all kinds of resentment, grievances, fatigue and depression can be transmitted to the words through my fingertips, just like the last relaxation in yoga, the body feels a fire slowly burning, and the fatigue and toxins in the carrier's body are discharged.
And as long as the computer breaks down one day, the words written may become dust that can never be found in the universe and turn into invisible dust. As a result, words, feelings, and life can be immortalized in this way.
There is no kind of greatness that does not end up being immortalized invisibly, and for the sake of my own health, I will continue to write for fifty years.