My Fatigue and My Poetry

I was drained of all my strength by 996, and I also lost the poetry and distance of life. Until I was forced to take over the used bookstore in my family that was on the verge of bankruptcy. While cleaning up the books, I discovered a secret: my father left a handwritten note in every old book for strange readers. "If you're tired, there's always a cup of hot tea here." "The confusion you are feeling right now has been experienced by others before you." Following these gentle clues, I pushed open the closed doors of my heart: I met Master Chen, a construction worker. He told me a story about his mother, a heavy iron pot, and the "Mom" he had not called out for more than thirty years. He carried the hardness of cement on his shoulders, and the figure of his mother carrying the burden of life slowly overlapped in the dust. I met a retired professor who comes every year to buy a bouquet of white camellias. In his silent watch, there is a tender love that spans half a century and is intertwined with the fate of his family and country. I met an elite who worked overtime in the CBD late at night. Under his bright suit, there was a heart that was almost broken between ideal and reality... These souls warmed by my father's words, each burdened with the regrets and fatigue of the times, have all found a harbor of understanding here. It turns out that what my father ran was never a bookstore, but a refuge built with paper and ink to accommodate the tired souls of contemporary people. Now, I sit here and continue writing his poems. If you feel tired, welcome to come in. There are no answers here, but there is a book prepared for you, and a life waiting to be interpreted gently.