Every day without dancing is a failure of life.
——Nietzsche
Writing a diary every day is indeed a good habit.
Unfortunately, I am by no means a person with good habits. For a while, I often heard people talking about the three-minute heat. This couldn’t be me, could it?
I don’t know why, but I always feel as if my hair is standing on end when I hear these five words. I feel uncomfortable, but I also have the urge to trace back to the origin, find the originator of this word, and beat him up.
So grumpy. To be honest, this is not good.
It’s so cold——
I scribbled in my notebook and wrote. The way it looks now, it seems like it's just killing time, too boring, too uninteresting.
I remember I once saw a small diary. The innocent child wrote the three characters "To the diary" on each page. It was so confident and cute.
I didn't know why I suddenly shuddered, and immediately discovered something terrible.
Forget it, forget it, don’t think about it anymore. What was I just thinking about? Forgot to forget.
Okay, now that I have forgotten, I take a deep breath.
Lift the pen again.
Perhaps due to the conflict in my mind just now, I forgot what I wanted to write.
When I looked up again, I saw that the paper had become completely black, just covering the original comma. It looked more like an English period. It was a big period lying in the middle, which looked particularly strange.
So dark.
I don’t know what kind of disease caused me to sigh like this.
So, is it just over?
I can't see my current expression, of course.
I picked up the pen again:
Good morning.
…
He sighed and closed the book. The stiff and yellowed pages almost fell off because he didn't pay much attention to them. I could only pick up the flimsy paper and stuff it back in again.
so troublesome.
But the current situation is normal.
Then again, this book is quite old. Even if I don't write often, I only have a few pages now. I even doubt that they will weather naturally before I finish writing.
However, this is something I carefully selected, how could the quality be poor?
Just when my body leaned forward slightly, the seat under me made a "squeak" sound. It was very loud, a bit noisy, and so annoying.
So I simply stood up.
It’s time to throw away the garbage. Didn’t you wash the dishes from last night’s dinner?
I'll buy a better pen next time and change the ink too. Compared with using ink sacs, I still prefer bottles. It doesn’t have to be too good... but it can’t be worse. I can still afford the money... I am rich and I am proud... Hmm. So want to go shopping today? right.
I twitched my lips.
I had thrown the garbage bag casually at the door. The plastic bag deformed and made an unpleasant groan.
Although we don’t produce much garbage every day, but we keep it at home, why do we always think it will rot?
So dirty, so dirty, so dirty. Someone seemed to be saying this to me in my ears, with a strange and special laughter.
There are crystal glass windows in front of you, and you can see the blue sky, snow-white clouds, walking, busy and lively people, and the colorful vehicles passing by, forming a complete picture.
Commonplace things are like this all the time.
This world, after all, belongs to people.
I once wanted to blend into a painting, but the result was not satisfactory.
Unexpected and unreasonable, no one thought there would be such an ending.
I lowered my head.
The door was still open, so I could walk in at any time.
The door was open, so I could still walk back.
Same, but different.
I didn't go back, I just took out the mirror from my pocket and started to look at my familiar face.
Eyebrows, nose, eyes, and mouth make up a human face. Ordinary face, familiar face, unfamiliar face, whose face? my face.
I remember someone once commented that I am a quiet and good person. I have always scoffed at this conclusion.
Even so, I still have a different feeling, which is so frustrating.
Are you right?
To, diary.
----------
The day's plan begins in the morning.
What about dusk?
This is like an abandoned time, which can only be associated with parting and sorrow forever. Even though they are on the boundary between day and night, their treatment is far worse. They are always called old people.
You were standing where the kitchen should be.
In front of him was an empty stove, an empty cabinet-like place, and an empty corner where the refrigerator should have been.
It was kept very clean.
You have a knife in your hand.
This is a small knife that can never hurt anyone, a fruit knife. The cold blade is like ice. The blade is really dull - it doesn't matter even if you hold it directly, it's really safe.
The blade of the knife is clean, and the handle is also clean, just like its owner's hands that are washed every day.
You don't like sitting, so you stand. This logic is reasonable. However, even standing now seems a little uncomfortable, but I don't know what to do.
You love knives, no matter what kind of knife they are. The cold touch, or sharpness or lack thereof, is ultimately designed to destroy.
Just like yourself, isn't it?
The material of the knife is metal, and the people who make the knife are humans. Metal cannot change itself.
I don't like knives. You said to yourself secretly.
Well, you don't like knives.
If so what do you like? You seem a little confused - there should always be something you like. It seems like you've never had the idea of liking anything else. Well, then you don't like anything.
A red light suddenly flashed before his eyes.
Your eyes widened and you looked around.
There turned out to be a broken door here, which led to the balcony.
Outside the door is the sunset.
It turned out to be the sunset.
You breathed a sigh of relief and quickly dropped the knife in your hand. The water droplets on the knife dripped on the table with the movement, gently reflecting the red of the sunset.
Red like blood.
The blade of the knife was also smeared with red, and so was the room - the door was too wide open.
There was a frightening throbbing in my heart, like a lurking big cat, scratching the deepest part of my heart, grinning secretly, ready to reveal its sharpest claws at any time.
Calm down, yes, calm down. It's time to calm down.
You stumbled to the hall.
Only this place is still popular. The blue and white checkered tablecloth lies meekly on the solid wood table, and the two wicker chairs are safe and secure. The faint aroma of meat comes from outside the half-open door - it is for this reason that you opened the door.
The sweet aroma is mixed with the slightly spicy sauce, and the dishes are full of color, flavor and aroma, and are full of tempting heat. You seem to have experienced this scene. Very good, very good very good.
You finally sat on the wicker chair and became quiet.
What are you doing here? What are you doing here?
What have you done? What did you do before?
His body stiffened for a moment, and he was trembling uncontrollably.
You start trying your best to fill your mind with irrelevant information. Powder every thought and pour it into blank elements.
what to do? what to do?
Have a meal? Reading? Or sit in a daze?
what to do? what to do?
The ridiculous and messy thoughts act as a tight spell, but they have some effect, making you feel a lot more at ease, the trembling of your fingers has also eased a little, you calmed down, and you smiled pale and stiff.
"Creak-" The door was gently touched at this moment.
This was something I never expected.
The muscles in his face twitched slightly, as if they were stiff.
There is only a blank in my mind.
You slowly looked towards the door.
The door opened, accompanied by a clearer voice, but what was said was an extremely strange sentence.
"Good morning."
Sounds good?
The prelude to night is also the hymn of dawn, right?
