Suddenly I want to write something, but I don't know where to start, just letting my emotions guide me. Actually, I originally wanted to write another diary about traveling, but it always feels like something is missing, so I’ll let it brew a bit longer.

In the evening, I chatted with an old friend I hadn't seen in years on WeChat. I found that Douyin is truly a magical existence, allowing people who have lost contact for over a decade to find each other again. While I am grateful for this regained connection, I am also afraid, afraid that the psychological shadows of the past will come back. But, clearly, my fears were met with a response.

When chatting with my old friend, we inevitably mentioned the past, thus opening the door to memories. Fortunately, this time the memories did not stir too many emotions, as if telling someone else's story. I remember the last time I felt this way was years ago when I was writing my semi-autobiographical novel "Bowknot."

I seem to be that kind of person, whether the memories are tragic or happy, I always unconsciously add some dramatic interpretation, as if telling my own story, yet also standing from the perspective of an observer. But when tracing back to the roots, it doesn’t elevate any dimension; is this what psychology calls memory reconstruction? Or perhaps, the best way to heal oneself is to go back to the past and change it.

In fact, this protagonist is also the main character of another semi-autobiographical novel of mine. It’s a pity that while the novel has a perfect tragic ending, reality is even more melodramatic. It seems that without artistic processing, everything appears so raw. Perhaps life itself is filled with the cruelty of reality.

The young man I once longed for has finally turned into someone I dislike, a twinge of heartache passes through me, but this heartache hasn’t caused my "Mother Teresa heart" to overflow again. This is good; our relationship has finally entered a safe state that transcends gender. I can’t remember when it started, but I no longer feel waves of emotion when watching romantic dramas. It could also be that today’s idol dramas are too poorly made, but why can’t even those classic love films stir my heart?

I fear this feeling, making myself feel like an emotionless zombie, unable to experience any love or hate. But I also like this feeling; isn’t this version of myself the most peaceful? The calmness and composure I have longed for all these years have integrated into my life like eating and sleeping. Some say the best state of life is one where you can see the end at a glance, stable and secure. When I truly live such a life, I find it rather dull.

Late-arriving deep feelings are not as good as grass, especially since neither of us has expressed any affection. If there is any, it might be that we are fellow townsmen, former classmates, friends, and that’s all. Let it go, it should be.

Suddenly, I mentioned wanting to eat the rice noodles from my childhood neighborhood, but as soon as I said it, I lost my appetite. What is "home"? This has been the most discussed topic since we reestablished contact, yet we tacitly avoided this word. We are both older and single, yet we didn’t talk about "midnight radio," which is quite rare. He said he would take me to eat something I would never want to eat again when I go back. In an instant, the scene of him standing outside my door with snacks flashed in my mind. But soon, this scene was replaced by my mother’s scolding. He was certainly not present, and my mother didn’t need to maintain politeness in front of outsiders. It wasn’t a few bags of snacks that won me over, but rather the worry that I would get addicted to snacks and ask her for pocket money. It turned out I didn’t deserve it; a teenager didn’t even deserve to occasionally get cheap snacks. Sure enough, it became a self-fulfilling prophecy; after entering society, I was indeed deceived by cheap emotions time and again.

Even now, I still cannot understand my mother’s "good intentions" back then. Perhaps my rebellious phase hasn’t ended yet. But none of this matters anymore; if the heart is empty, nothing can fill it.

I don’t know where my next step is, he said he is just getting by until retirement. That’s good; there’s no need to worry about making a living, my young man can walk through this life steadily.

Later, we talked a lot about death, surprisingly finding that we have the same plans for the end. If it were a few years ago, I would have been happy. But now, there’s only blessing left. Watching the drama "The Story of Roses" that is currently airing, I just hear too many people mention this popular show, treating it as background music.

Even now, I still can’t learn how to get along with people, nor do I believe that parents will unconditionally love their children. Sometimes I think, missing out back then was fate; missing out again is human-made.

However, it should be something to be happy about. In the remaining life, with one less person to worry about in my memories, I should live more freely. I can’t remember when it started, but I always feel that this life is to atone for sins, surely I did too many bad things in my last life. Otherwise, why would I be hurt time and again? He said, when I envy others, others are also envying me. I asked him, what do others envy about me? He couldn’t answer. Indeed, after so many years without contact, we have both changed a lot. Perhaps compared to those who have no food to eat or no place to live, I should be considered enviable for now.

I told him I believe in karma. The uncle who bullied me and his children, my parents despised my idea of opening a restaurant, yet they wholeheartedly supported them in opening a restaurant. The daughter-in-law of my uncle’s family is a girl who runs a dessert shop; my parents praised her for being capable and even contributed money and effort when her branch opened. At that moment, the resentment in my heart reached its peak. Later, I heard that my uncle’s daughter-in-law got cancer, and my uncle came to my parents crying every now and then. Before I could feel happy, my mother seemed to compromise and allowed me to pursue my idea of working in the restaurant industry, suggesting I help at their shop. But when I asked how much the salary was, my mother immediately got angry: "Who doesn’t have some difficulties? How can you be so ungrateful now, only thinking about money!" This time, I didn’t choose to confront her; I just made an excuse to politely refuse. He praised me for being smart, but I knew I hadn’t; I was still deliberately hiding my emotions and feeling wronged.

Lower-class families are like crabs in a basket, no one can stand to see anyone do well. I suddenly realized what they envied about me: my poverty, my freedom, my courage to leave whenever I want. Even if the rest of my life is tumultuous, I will not compromise with them. The only price to pay is: a sensible child does not deserve to enjoy happiness.

If time could go back to middle school, or even earlier, I would choose to resist or seek help the first time I was hit. If time could let me see the ending of this life in advance, I hope it won’t take too long. I was in a daze; I thought the loss of the ability to feel joy was due to these two years of experiences, but it should have been for a long time.

What is the only motivation that supports me to live? I don’t know. I only know that a few days ago, my aunt sent me a message in a caring way to challenge me, and I replied: forget about me. My depression relapsed, and I gave up on treatment. Later, I felt so cowardly, still looking for excuses to save face for others.

What agreements did I once have with him? I don’t remember, and it doesn’t matter anymore. I only know that if the heart cannot let go, it will create a prison wherever it goes.

The end