I don't know what kind of psychology I am adhering to, but I suddenly picked up a pen in my hand, wanting to record a past event, record those disappeared emotions and that indelible memory. But as I write, I feel like I can't write without the mood.
Some time ago, I said to my good friend: I want to write about my high school experience and the lost time.
They said: You write, write about that time when we were willing to spend our beautiful years together around a stubborn idea. It has become the past, but it is often recalled by us. Remember to write us in, but don't write too poorly.
I don't know how to begin with that time that we all can't help but recall. I write and then stop, and I stop and write again.
Now, I picked up the pen again, and they said you should keep writing. Sometimes words left in the heart will rot, become moldy, and breed bacteria. It is better to say them happily, but who will be a loyal audience? There is only one actor in my world, but no audience. Just write it down. But after all, there is still no purpose, and the memory is fragmented and intermittent. I decided to write it down and remember this little piece of time that is nothing special. I don't know what to name it, since it's so fitful and broken. I might as well call him a fragmented memory. What route will he take in the story? It seemed that I had no idea at all, and I didn't know how to tell this story. I guess I didn't have any distracting thoughts, so I just did it.