Whenever I pick up the pen, I think I must write a good story, and the story must also praise a human hero shrouded in holy light. But gradually I discovered that the superficial greatness was not the true greatness. Humanity had spread like a virus. The tribes gathered in one place to survive and reproduce until the resources were eaten up. Then they went to another place to continue this boring and unrestrained low-end activity, and called cognitive common sense evolution.
Therefore, many times I biasedly believe that what we need is curses and disasters, rather than praise and glory. What we look forward to in our hearts is the vision of rebuilding the country for future generations. But books taught me wisdom, taught me to retain a little touch, and taught me to write, but they also brought endless pain.
I know that a writer only admits that he cannot live up to his reputation when he is still staring at a blank page. At that time, he would suddenly realize that the lies filled in those complimentary words were like a giant net, which had inadvertently surrounded him. Even though he had long seen that those praises were full of loopholes, the supreme glory made him willingly fall into it.
For a long time, I have tried my best to maintain a cultivated image in front of others, so maybe I have been pretending for too long. Every time I go home, I see familiar faces who want to express their kindness to me, hug me, and ask me to reveal my heart to them. I feel at a loss, only to find that it is a complete stranger to me. That feeling is true loneliness, like claiming to be aloof but helplessly involved in the disputes of mediocrity. Maybe your own existence itself is a mistake.