In everyone’s heart lives a child, who may be nad Han Fei, or perhaps Chen Ge.
I lie on the train in April, watching the wind outside the window, this world gentle and brilliant.
The swallows return, spring is warm and flowers blossom, my eyes store all things beautiful, yet the body slowly decays.
Buried in the soil, under last winter’s fallen leaves, or repeating the everyday repetition.
They call this growing up, they think this is maturity, they say life likes unchanging stability, and stability is the greatest happiness.
They always consider a lot, they live stably and beautifully, they say I am like a misfit freak.
I should grow up, should accept fate, should live like them, instead of being the fish leaping out of water, the sheep not fitting in, the star that can’t even light itself.
Soone said life is bitter like a song, I hum the song, carrying a chest full of lone bravery, fiercely forging ahead.
I want to live like fireworks, blooming for a mont in the night sky, I will not regret, nor bow my head.
I know they think I’m naive, even consider a madman, I smile watching their ridicule, I run wildly in winter’s snowfield, dance among autumn’s fallen leaves, sing loudly in spring, gaze at the Milky Way in sumr.
Such a madman suddenly one day lost his shadow.
A thousand voices ring in his ears, saying he should grow up, saying he shouldn’t continue writing those absurd ghostly words.
Yes, everyone thought he was writing horror stories, only he thought he was writing naive fairy tales.
His stories were actually as childish and ridiculous as himself, that day he tore up all his manuscript paper, sitting in front of himself.
He looked at his own face, he saw his own eyes, he wanted to ask himself, what’s wrong with you?
Why do you cry in a familiar room? Why have you grown white hair yet still act like a child? Why always so naive and innocent? Why still harbor fantasies, believing the world will reward and favor you even a little?
You fall into the mud again and again, it’s not those beautiful things pulling you up, it’s clearly yourself, you climb up bit by bit, smiling with mud all over, like a damn fool.
You see the flowers blooming all over your arms, sll the fragrance of dreams.
You rejected the dicine prescribed by the doctor, picked up the wine filled with moonlight, drunk deeply, you covered your heart, and suddenly cried.
I am really in pain, I don’t know how to express it, I can’t see, I’ve lost my way, lost my way again, I can’t find the road back, I use all my strength to curl up my body, I try hard to straighten every finger, holding my own hand.
Clearly living well, why suddenly cry.
The waiter handed over a tissue, his worried look made afraid, that pure goodwill felt a bit heavy, I avoided his gaze, looking at his six-year-old child.
Soday children will also grow up, but I hope he doesn’t find growing up sothing terrifying.
Again, I smiled like usual, covered in mud, like a damn fool.
The guest at the next table sat across from , raised the beer, gently clinked the glass.
Softly said thank you, I seem to really like saying thank you, maybe on the day I die, when the God of Death swings the scythe, I will also gently and politely say thank you to him.
In the sea of people, coming and going, in a strange city, I lay on the table.
Lately my head always hurts, I often dream of returning to grandmother’s yard, sitting in a chair, looking at the stars overhead.
It seems like it’s been a long ti since I’ve seen the stars.
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