Cannot Be Empty

I forget who said it, maybe it was Bi Feiyu, the beginning of every good story is stained. So when he wanted to write his story, he wrote several articles and found that they were all ice cubes from Macondo. So I wanted to write about my youth. When I tossed and turned for a long time at midnight, I found that all I could think of was "My name is Geng Geng". We cannot have youth and feelings about youth at the same time. I think this is fart. The youthful emotions are like exposed glass nerves, showing every detail, and the transparent brilliance and pain are extremely real and delicate. Then we grow up and become boring adults. We regard the nostalgia for youth as useless moans and the delicate emotions as stumbling blocks that prevent life from going as planned. Our nerves have been beaten by life and become as rough and strong as hemp rope. Any useless additional emotional exertion is stifled by biological instinct. Because living in the adult world has consumed all the energy, and it is really sad to be unable to distinguish the excess quota. So I look back occasionally through the fog of time, and I no longer feel the same way I did at the beginning. I can't find it, and maybe I don't want to look for it. But a moment always has its meaning only after you have gone a long way forward to look at it. It's true. I don't know why I remember the evening when I rushed back to the classroom with an umbrella under my umbrella for evening self-study after taking a shower. Raindrops hit the inferior transparent umbrella. The sky is overcast. I have to go back and sit for four hours staring at math problems that I have no idea how to solve. After washing my hair, the fatigue and weakness overwhelmed me like the humidity of the rainy season. It was very similar to when I was a child, moving in a pool full of ocean balls. It was difficult to move and I couldn't step on the point of exertion. Except that some moments have a special tone, other days are like a blurry drop of water disappearing into the ocean. I just remember that I was very afraid of growing up and going to college. I am very afraid that my life will be determined step by step - it will be even more terrible if the role that is determined is not so good - and unfortunately, in a sense, I am entering such a track step by step. The young man's spirit is so high that it is a favorite sentence in middle school compositions, but we all selectively ignore the second half of it: Who thinks you are cold and sit down? Okay, so much rambling, but I haven't gotten to the point yet. Actually, I just want to say that the story I want to write is not about this person. Because I lost contact with him, in my memory he died suddenly on the eve of the college entrance examination, and my impression of him will always remain at the age of seventeen or eighteen. So there are some emotions that I can't let go - not for him personally, but as a tombstone, marking the regret that has haunted me throughout my youth. So I wanted to write him out. Because the things in the mind are transformed into language, just like the painted cultural relics that have been buried underground for a long time and finally see the light of day - most of them oxidize and fade instantly, wither and wither. In a way, I am becoming a boring adult. Because these meaningless moans have bothered me for too long, I have nightmares at midnight, which affects my sleep, and then affects my ability to move bricks the next day. So write it down and transfer the things in your mind to a place to store them. Whether they will become dusty in the future is not something that worries me. Just like the useless things at home that you can't bear to throw away, you always pack them into the storage room first - and then wait until they are infested with insects, and then you can throw them out without any psychological burden. Many people complain that youth novels are fake. Nonsense. There are so many earth-shattering events in life to satisfy the contradictions and conflicts required by the novel. More fine pieces of sourness are like the yellow plum rain in early summer, pattering, seemingly absent, only the moisture smudges the mold spots in the corners. You can't tell what's wrong with it, but it's just wrong everywhere. The melancholy of youth is mostly like this. So this will be a very plain, quiet story. Of course, it can also be called gentle - if you want to. Intention: I want to try my best to touch my childhood self before I become a boring adult - this may give me some courage to stand up again after lying down now.