I am like a fool. I can communicate with sparrows on the roadside and explore with ants on the ground, but I cannot talk to people. I can only communicate with cold paper.
I am just a small writer, a nameless person. I am the vaguest background among all living beings, and I am one ten thousandth of the people who are folded in the statistical reports. I have no experience of stormy waves. I only become part of the wind when I squeeze into the subway in the morning light.
But always in the middle of the night, I hear the gentle clinking of porcelain inside my body - it is the thin body that I am firing with my breath, and no one is paying attention.
When I was writing essays when I was a child, I said that my mother mended my schoolbag late at night. In fact, her sewing box was already covered with dust. This lie was rewarded with the teacher's "true feelings" comment. But is this really an article? Maybe the article is just using words to weave a story, right? Is there no true feelings in the world and nothing worth recording?
Writing itself is a carrier of stories. We use false feelings to construct a perfect world, but history is the inheritance of spiritual culture and the foundation of immortality. From this moment on, I will write a history of my childhood.
That is an immortal memory from my elementary school days. Back then, we used colored clay to make spinning tops. We brought a dead object back to life, giving it civilization and cultural heritage, which may be the meaning of human life! Give something human emotion and make it an inheritance of will and an immortal totem.
Long story short, let's step into this vast history…
Intention: No intention