By the Naihe Bridge and the Wangchuan River, I guarded this soup pot that had been boiling for thousands of years. I had seen too many crazy men and women, and heard countless stories of love and hatred.
I handed them soup and walked them across the bridge, but what about me? I guarded the mottled bamboo beside the stove, and the old scar on my wrist ached faintly. I advised everyone to let it go, except myself, who held on to that name and refused to let go. Forgetting is a gift, and I choose not to forget.
This diary is not about soup recipes, but about the world I have seen and the person I can't wait for in these long years.
Purpose: To explore the meaning of memory, forgetting and obsession, to reflect the glory and darkness of human nature in all living things, and to heal people's hearts.