When I picked up the pen and wrote "Twenty-eight Whites" on the paper with slight trembling, the uncontrollable excitement in my heart was like a spring of huge energy, rushing into my brain continuously, as if I had broken the constraints of time and sneaked into the life of the past twenty-eight years. This kind of excitement and ecstasy is like a microscope, allowing me to clearly see the tiny dust-like stories that I once nestled beside me. They truly record the pulse of life, and are densely filled with long scrolls of life, but they are only waiting for an opportunity to completely move us.
My confession comes from the infinite warmth and love brought by this story as small as dust. Although I was so excited that I didn't know where to start, I clearly remember the legacy of those days, and I could even smell the smell of that street, that house, and that meal. I want to be bold once, graffiti on paper, and write down those feelings at will. The wind is calm and the clouds are clear. I hope not to disturb your life. I only hope that my words can soothe my anxious heart and see the flowers, birds, fish, insects, and the beauty of forests and lakes in the barrenness of life.
Please allow me to make a confession, an immature but eager confession, detailing the dust that swept my life crazily overnight to comfort my sleepless nights.
Concept: a microcosm of twenty-eight years of life