Maybe I don't have literary talent
Maybe my writing is bad
I don't have any so-called academic qualifications either
But I just want to write my own words
my thoughts
People's life is full of things, and I have been playing different strange roles in my life, recalling the past or experiencing the present without being sad or happy.
Now I seem to have enough food, warm clothes, and a house to live in, but these are not really mine, nor are they what I want to be happy with. My heart is barren, a mess and a wasteland.
I'm not a scholar, nor am I talented, I'm just a coward who wants to counterattack.