The new book continues to be difficult, but I promised the editor-in-chief that I would definitely post this month. Although I still have confidence that what I wrote will definitely be welcomed by readers, I can't find the feeling I want, which ultimately makes me anxious.

There are two types of words: one is written for the public readers, and the other is of course written for themselves.

Needless to say, the former is a kind of text, it must be full of joy and fun. I just want to write words that bring happiness to readers, even if my mood was extremely bad at that time.

Even though my heart is full of scars, the words in my writing are still blooming.

This is the self-cultivation of being a business writer.

Now I want to write some words for myself, without caring about anything else, as I look for the feeling of falling in love with the words again, and at the same time calm down the anxiety and nervousness before opening a new book.

For this reason, I spent the whole night reading what I wrote ago, almost all the words I wrote for myself. From the beginning I felt embarrassed to my scalp tingling, to the later part, I seemed to be immersed in an indescribable feeling.

Ten years ago, the word "sad" is always indispensable in the words I wrote. If I had to add an attribution to this word, it would definitely be "bright sadness". The pretentiousness that overflowed from the paper was exactly what made me embarrassed to my scalp numb.

If these words were written by someone else, then I must be sure of his skill in lyrics on the surface, saying that his writing style is still OK, and of course he laughed at this person in his heart. If this person still wants to write online articles, then I must be waiting for him to get bleeding from his head.

In order to prove that I am not a random assertion, I will extract the nonsensical modern poems I wrote ago. At that time, my dream was really to be a poet and an essayist.

"The Edge of Void and Real" The blade of time is perfectly sharp / stripped my soul and body / on the edge of Void and Real / I am reality / You are a dream / My body is as stiff as ice / Your soul is tender as water / I always use cruelty to whip myself / Keep moving forward and keep on the ground / I won't care about you, because of your passion / You are like a shadow / I strand you in the polished mirror / It is the edge of Void and Real / You smile and look at me in a hurry / I suddenly fantasize about the moment of reunion and fusion with you / I stretch out my hand / I find you can meet again / But it is blocked in the middle / Time is old at the speed of light / The blade of time polished this mirror / I know you will not leave / But it is just a virtual image after all

Of course, I felt embarrassed when I read this modern poem at first. Maybe it was because I wrote too many popular things. When I looked at those unearthed poems and prose, I felt that they were too pretentious and boring, and then from a commercial perspective, I criticized them as worthless.

Perhaps in this era, only those poems and prose written by great writers who have achieved success can be bought by people, but the other party may not buy them back, but instead place them on bookshelf as a decoration.

However, as my scalp continued to get numb, I realized that after being embarrassed for a long time, the awkwardness made me feel sour. It was like reading a brainless little article, not harshly pursuing rationality and logic. The feeling of mental retardation can make people catch up with the latest updates in one breath.

I think I was too harsh about myself ago. I felt like I was trampling on his inner scenes that made me tingle my scalp later.

His youth is really worthless, full of loneliness and sorrow. Every word is the most true portrayal of his heart, but he will take it out and whip the corpse by himself later.

He died unconsciously while growing up, as if the virtual and the real had become one.

No matter what truth is familiar with, it is impossible to relieve the sorrow brought by his death, no matter what philosophy, sincerity, tenacity, and tenderness, it is impossible to relieve this sorrow.

The only thing I can do is to break free from this sorrow and understand a certain philosophy from it. Any philosophy after understanding is so weak and powerless in the face of the unexpected sorrow that follows.

I listened to the sound of the waves and the sound of the wind in the dark night. At this moment, I was so rational that I felt terrifying that I would not be accompanied by anyone in this late night. After all, life is a self-cultivation that has nothing to do with anyone.

The feeling of letting the words pour out from the pen did not make me feel happy at this moment, but only endless melancholy. Perhaps at this moment, the dead man was briefly resurrected in my insensitive body, which made the rational me a little emotional.

I don’t know if I look at myself in and then, when I write the words, my scalp will be numb again. I only know that at this moment, I used this article to suppress all the distracting thoughts that would affect my new work and calm down my inner loss.

It turns out that the writer's soul is wrapped in eternal loneliness. Expecting someone to understand and tolerate is just a dream that is destined to be disillusioned. The existence that can depend on and trust can only be written.

Before I started a new book, I needed to spend five or six hours a day looking for such a feeling very focused. At this moment, I only belong to the text.
Chapter completed!