Love breeds pain, love breeds despair. It's always been like this, it's always been like this.
I've always liked someone, I know it's impossible, but I can't let go. I still like it.
We determine the fate of fictional characters, so when I write about them, I see other people through them.
Inevitably, I dismantled and reconstructed some people I knew well, using fiction in exchange for endings that I recognized in my heart. So sometimes I feel guilty but dare not continue thinking about it.
Did I respect my role? Am I insulting these characters—and the people I once knew—in the name of love?
I have no idea.
If I keep thinking about it, I think there's a good chance I'll get an answer that's the opposite of what I'm hoping for.
But I am still writing, using my pen to touch my flesh and blood.
The characters I write about are no longer the original ones I want to write about, but are projections of my fantasies and even imaginings. I feel stuck in my throat and there is nothing I can do.
I continued to indulge, compiling fairy tales to comfort myself.
At least in my impure and pure love, there are people who truly love each other. I think of them as my characters, but they could be anyone in love. They are everyone.
So I try to reconcile with the novel and with my own pen.
No matter what, love always exists, so why care about what false names or symbols she uses.
What we love is never just a character or a story.
——What we love is love itself.
Intention: To our wandering love.