It's the Air, It's the Disease

True joy is always faint, like air, colorless, tasteless, soundless, and will suffocate as soon as it disappears. The real pain is always faint, just like a stubborn disease brought from the mother's womb. It can't kill you, but it is difficult to cure. Just like, there is always a person in this world, he (she) is both your air and your stubborn illness...