By the time I finished reading "Melrose", it was already in the middle of the night, hazy and sleepy until dawn. Those things that attacked and were attacked, the source and the result, soaked the entire dream, became blurred, and roamed the empty room. The experience of the original author is far more cruel than the play and the book he wrote. Those things that have besieged you for most of your life, the strong enemies that have been advancing one after another in your long life, make you fight like a weary beast and surrender. things. When you are still young in life, blame your parents, blame the times, blame everything and people. In the end, the years were blown away, the parents died, the times were crowded and run away, things and people faded away in the eyes of the fleeting, leaving only myself, still sitting in the same place, like a little boy, and finally found that I don't know who to blame, Who else can you talk to. And then we have to congratulate, how inspiring to step into another era, let's "celebrate" it all in a different way. In recent years, the concept of "family of origin" has become so popular. A large group of people stand up and accuse their parents desperately, as if throwing all the tattered things into a hole, and their life will be brighter from now on. They stubbornly practice it perfectly. The principle of "both parents are evil", and in this large group of people, a small group of people perfectly "confirmed" this principle. Suffering flows from generation to generation. But maybe we shouldn't just confine our eyes to the family, those things of the past, like the scepter of cold and hard cement infiltrating life, embedded hard, every step you take, it is deeper. I saw Patrick taking drugs, masochism, alcoholism, narcissism and low self-esteem, wandering on the scales of desire and boredom, in the sea of madness and sadness, and I can't comment on his life. Those who run through reality and nightmares, wearing a sarcastic mask, you can't see through them, when you are like a psychiatrist or psychotherapist, using the arrow of inspection, using Freud's or Jung's theory to be precise Dissecting this shell, penetrating layer by layer, infinite differentiation, in the end, it is just a broken childhood heart, still shaking. In this huge adult body, what really holds is so tiny, the child who never grew up, just curled up there. When we step into the palace of destiny like King Oedipus, the bell of suffering has already struck. We strive to move forward, but are pushed back to the past, and what we flee from becomes the foothold.
They may not have done it on purpose, but the consequences have already caused painstaking efforts, and the suffering is passed down from generation to generation. Like the ledges on the coast, the layers deepened
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