or thought your train moving while setting still?
Maybe everyone has a time like this. Months, years, a lifetime never even thought to touch. It's like being stuck in a quagmire, your melancholy, your melancholy, your unknown. Looking at everything around him, there is an inexplicable detachment, and it seems that he has been faintly detached from everything. Listening to English songs that others do not understand, and reading novels and essays in melancholy style. Inexplicably, I began to hate those well-drawn tracks. School, family, teachers, classmates and parents who are accustomed to it. Sometimes they even hate the way of life and future planning of human beings. I feel that what I see is the essence, the root of everything, or the ugliness that people try to hide, the so-called social civilization tries to avoid. Began to be world-weary, exhausted or taciturn, and the quality in his eyes began to become sad and cold. I started trying to disguise and let the blue in my heart spread all over my body little by little. I will silently find myself a belief and a dream ahead. But always immersed in the Internet, movies or music, it is difficult to complete those plans in mind. I look forward to tomorrow's efforts to make up for today's idleness, but I always live every day in the silence every day.
Of course, sometimes I will wake up, hate my mediocrity, ridicule my vulgar pretence, and then find the courage to move forward. But persistence is a character that needs to be polished, because it is always impossible to determine the direction of one's own progress, and there will be a path with a perfect trajectory. Perhaps the so-called persistence is to slowly grind away its original nature in repeated choices, and then slowly become like the person I hated at the beginning in the precipitation of the years. Finally, looking at the rounded edges and corners, I used a simple word to describe the inexplicable detachment. childish.
To the escape of daisy, the exhaustion of lisa. Maybe what I'm talking about has moved away from those things. Never thought he was insane, but seemed to be in a mental hospital in a sense. It's a compromise, or a maturity, to slowly put on those traits that I once hated irony. I even feel that Susanna's healing is like a compromise to the outside world, betraying my own cognition. When the diary full of his so-called cognition was made public, it was as if he was facing his unbearable past, and only tears and convulsive crying could express his helplessness. Maybe the morbidity of the past can never be cured, the diary teaches only to vent, only to escape. How can I arouse my yearning for social life and the pursuit of laughter in the outside world, in order to get rid of that unbearable negative disgust. Daisy uses death to escape and face the horror, but we have never had the courage to face death, and it is difficult to give up that kind of yearning for beauty. This kind of spiritual perception, what description can be expressed, and who can fully understand it. Some things and cognitions in the past will make you laugh now, but who will laugh at the current self. The childish past exists only in the future.
Maybe I will also be very nostalgic for the sunshine in the mental hospital, those singing voices, the faint overtones of the guitar. But detachment is not another escape. It is to stay in your own blues, or to face those unbearable pasts, or to abandon them. Who can judge, who can face this choice, who is right and who is wrong? we are liars.
You can always go downtown .
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