There is a child living in everyone's heart. He may be called Han Fei, or he may be called Chen Ge.
I lay on the train in April and looked at the wind outside the window. The world was gentle and brilliant.
The swallows return, the spring is warm and the flowers are blooming. All the beauty is hidden in the eyes, but the body is slowly decaying.
Buried in the soil, buried under last winter's fallen leaves, or repeated every day.
They call this growing up, and they think this is maturity. They say that life likes to remain unchanged, and stability is the greatest happiness.
They always think a lot, they live a stable and happy life, but they say I am like a weirdo who is out of place.
I should grow up, accept my fate, and live like them, instead of being that fish jumping out of the water, that sheep that doesn't fit in with the crowd, or that star that can't even shine for itself.
Some people say that life is as bitter as a song. I hummed the song and walked forward fiercely with a lonely and courageous tone.
I just want to live like a firework, blooming for a moment in the night sky throughout my life. I will not regret it, nor will I bow my head.
I know they think I am naive, or even crazy, but I smile and watch them laugh at me as I run wildly in the snow in winter, dance among the fallen leaves in autumn, sing loudly in spring, and look up at the Milky Way in summer.
Such a madman suddenly lost his shadow one day.
Ten thousand voices rang in his ears, saying that he should grow up and stop writing those ridiculous nonsense.
Yes, everyone thought he was writing a horror story, but he was the only one who thought he was writing a childish fairy tale.
His story was actually as childish and ridiculous as he was, that day he tore up all the manuscript paper and sat in front of himself.
He looked at his face, saw his eyes, and wanted to ask him, what's wrong with you?
Why do you cry in a familiar room? Why do you still look like a child even though you have white hair? Why are you always childish and innocent? Why do you still have illusions and think that the world will give you some gifts and rewards?
You fell down in the mud again and again, and it wasn't the good things that pulled you up, it was you yourself. It was you who got up little by little, with a smile covered in mud, like a fucking fool.
You look at the flowers blooming on your arms and smell the fragrance of flowers in your dream.
You refused the medicine prescribed by the doctor and picked up the wine filled with moonlight. You were so drunk that you covered your heart and suddenly cried.
I'm really in pain, I don't know how to say it, I can't see, I'm lost, I'm lost again, I can't find the way back, I curl up with all my strength, I try very hard to straighten every part of my body
fingers, holding his own hand.
I was obviously living well, why did I cry all of a sudden?
The waiter handed me a tissue, and his worried eyes scared me. His pure kindness was a bit heavy, so I avoided his eyes and looked at his six-year-old child.
The child will grow up one day, but I don't want him to feel that growing up is a terrible thing.
I'm smiling like I usually do, covered in mud and looking like a fucking idiot.
The guest at the next table sat across from me, raised his beer, and clinked his glasses gently.
I whispered thank you. I seem to like thanking very much. Maybe when the god of death swings his sickle on the day I die, I will also say thank you to him gently and politely.
There was a sea of people coming and going, and I was lying on the table in a strange city.
My head always hurts recently. I always dream that I am back in the yard of my grandma’s house, sitting on a chair and looking at the stars above my head.
It seems like I haven't seen the stars for a long time.