"I have lost my direction, but the road is still long." The paper on which this sentence was written was tucked into an address book on an old bookcase. The black pen and ink were still Wu Xie's handwriting ten years ago. I don't know which book I read at that time, but I jotted it down on the paper. The paper was still new, but the handwriting was obviously old.
The address book is densely packed with phone numbers, including the restaurant order numbers for the building next door, the housekeeping company nearby, and the numbers of many people who no longer exist in this world. I think of those people whose corpses are still unknown.
Wu Xie, who had just been excited about finding this old book, suddenly turned into a frost-beaten eggplant, full of weakness and exhaustion, as if he had returned to those months of great changes ten years ago.
Ten years ago, everyone treated him like a fool and pretended to be a fool. Until one day, everyone said it was for your own good and threw him aside. They laughed and said: "Silly, go back by yourself. We won't play with you anymore."
Wu Xie took the words written on the paper in a funny way and thought to himself that the state at that time was: "I just want to play."
So in the past ten years, he led another group of idiots to continue flying. After finally surviving these ten years, he found that the fog in front of him was still so thick that he could not see the road clearly. He was not sure whether the person inside the bronze door really wanted to make a promise with him, or whether he had been deceived for another ten years.