If fate is a punctuation mark, my twenty-one years of life must be one comma after another.
There are no ups and downs, no ups and downs, it just goes on boringly like a chronicle: one year after year, two years old, three years old, four years old, five years old, six years old, seven years old, eight years old, nine years old...
Then? Then at a certain turning point... It suddenly disappeared.
I'm dead, it seems.
It seemed like a car accident.
Let's go back to the day it happened. It was a very ordinary day. I was just walking on the street reading a book. Then, a very ordinary wind blew past me and took away my ordinary essay. I know that using so many "ordinary" words is unsightly, but I just want to emphasize that I am really innocent... Who knew that the ordinary wind was actually a copycat?
? Who knew that the gust of wind would send my paper onto the beautiful road? Who knew that when I went to pick up something, the green light suddenly turned to red?
Okay, so, I died. I don't remember exactly how I died. I probably flew quite far away, and there may have been a perfect parabola.
I dedicatedly followed the instructions of fate and closed my eyes, thinking about the last incomparable artistic ending of my life, and tried to make it rounder.
But I never expected that what was waiting for me was an exclamation mark.
And when a long time later, when I was numbed by the exclamation marks, I remembered that using punctuation marks to define destiny itself was a mistake.
Beethoven said it long ago, fate is a symphony.
Devil's Symphony.