Dusty Past Events

I have never considered myself a person who can write. I can neither think of gorgeous metaphors nor put together neat sentences. It's just because I have so many days that belong to me in my heart, I always feel that I should put them somewhere. However, I used the pen as a carving knife to carve out the fragments of the past years, dipped in the sweat and tears of those years, stroke by stroke. Every word on the paper carries my warmth: the sadness of a young man pulling a cart, the grievance of asking for wages in a brick kiln, the heat of wearing a military uniform and the pride of twenty-two years of military service. Every mark is my real life.