Seeing that his mind was heavy and thick, he wanted to hit the wall several times, smashing his head and bleeding.
The worst thing is that I seem to have heard a similar Chinese version of what Bill said in it. Every time the actor said a word, my heart trembled. I didn't encounter this kind of thing when I was a kid, but when I was nineteen, I met someone like this, he's still lying on my WeChat list, and for a long time I regarded him as a confidant, or a sexual fantasy object. We met online, and he didn't shy away from saying that he likes children in front of me. I don't know what I'm talking about.
He was in his forties and fifties, and his day job was teaching children musical instruments, and he even sent me a photo of one of his students. He said he never really implemented it, he had high moral demands on himself (his main concern was the disapproval of those around him, not the effect on the girl or the fact that the thing itself was wrong). He mentioned it again during a chat, and I told him about my sexual harassment, and he seemed to wake up suddenly, as if he had never thought about it from the woman's side before. He just said thank you and never told me about it again. We haven't had much contact since then.
He told me a lot of his secret feelings, most of which was his loneliness. He is a veteran of depression and always likes to talk about the various antidepressants and sleep aids he takes.
I will always think of him. I don't even know what I'm talking about.
All talent brewed out of pain is bullshit. I also wrote my story of being harassed by letters into a novel and published it in a magazine. The novel was the same as the movie, without changing the name.
I feel like I won. But to this day I still think I have to suffer before I can write something good. Likewise, I will never get married or have children. That teacher was an English foreign teacher at the school, and all my enthusiasm for English disappeared after that, and I was even afraid to meet middle-aged and elderly white people with yellow hair.
The beginning of a story is always like this. A little girl who is dissatisfied with herself and frustrated by the ordinary life of her life. A little girl who couldn't fit into the family and was always alone, but her heart was filled with the flame of change and creation.
After writing that novel, the incident became more and more obscure. Now that I think about it, among so many details, so many smells, colors, and the excitement of furniture styles, I remember him the most clearly. A grass growing out of a gap in the balcony of the apartment. The school assigned him to the top floor with the best view. He has a large balcony, but it is estimated that it is rarely taken care of, and it is very depressing. The floor of the balcony is covered with small white tiles, and near the drainage channel, there is an unusually bright green weed sticking out from the gap. I remember clearly, I touched the grass lightly with my foot before entering the house again.
Thinking about it now, probably out of all the elements of the story, only this ordinary weed is harmless. All the other details have been madly yelling danger at me since I entered the door.
.
At that time, the editor chatted with me about the novel, and asked me if the protagonist of the story was three-dimensional, did she have a prototype. I said no. The editor said that your fictional ability is very strong.
.
Those talents that are shaped in pain to keep us alive are, in part, a reflection of the imprint of pain on us. Sadly, we will become more and more dependent on this talent that emerges, and even stimulate it in the future by hurting ourselves again.
I don't think talent is the most important right now, nor is any bullshit work the most important. Any bullshit work is just a way to try to get all the attention and love that wasn't there before.
Some people can be loved happily, and some people can't, so they cut themselves apart, crushed them, let themselves bleed, and made something called art to be loved.
so fucked up
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