A Story of an Old Bull and a Young Blade of Grass

The direction of reality will make you cry when you look at it. If you want to read it, please have a little more patience. If you like perfection, just dive in silently. What we read is a "novel", and what the author retains is beauty. (Please ignore the following trivial thoughts) In fact, I have a habit of writing my own humble opinions after reading a novel, but I know that this may be a book of memories that will never come to an end. I originally thought that the people in the game who could share a piece of the past would be relieved... But maybe they need an audience, just that one, no matter whether the other party will show up or not. To be honest, when I see the back, the front is blurred. In that moment, and the person who is still remembered so much after so long... How can I make light of it? Is it the endless pull between impulse and reality? Is it the reminder over and over again that I want to let go, but is it more deeply engraved in my heart? Or is it the shadow that exists everywhere in my new life? I don't know, maybe it was just the words from the people around me, "What a big change" that made me realize that the things I once disliked became less unacceptable, and unknowingly, I took on the other person's habits. Someone once told me that never forgetting is a kind of obsession. The memories hidden in the heart will be infinitely beautified as time goes by. Eventually you will forget the bad things about the other person and continue to strengthen the good things. So... I actually don't believe in eternity, really, even in unforgettable nostalgia. But the self-doubt over and over again is real, the endless regrets are real, the thoughts but cannot, the extravagant hopes but fear are also real. The vigorous love is a kind of bravery, but letting go is not the same? There is a difference between letting go and letting go, there is regret between them. However, life is inherently hard. Wouldn't it be too cruel to cut off even the smallest thought? I have left behind endless thoughts, and the only remaining thing is "I hope you are well, and so am I." I think, I still have to lie to myself, and I can live a good life by lying to myself... We meet by chance, I hope it gets better and better, just be yourself, just be yourself (◦˙▽˙◦)

This is an inner monologue. The subject matter is novel, but it is not very attractive.