Looking Away in the Evening of January 14th

I haven't used Chinese social media for a long time, probably because the implicit rule of Chinese social media is to show comfort and pleasing to the eye. This rule can be expanded to be that our behavior is set to be moderate in the context of East Asia. Implicit cultural constraints. But my heart is uncomfortable, and I always feel speechless when I open this interface. But it's not really without words. A person who wants to talk always has a lot of mouths open, and a person who wants to walk always walks his own way. I'm always laughing and talking to myself, okay in the room, but also on the road. I didn't know how to dance on the road until I discovered Auckland's Karangahap Road, which is always full of disheveled sex workers and people floating in the air after taking psychedelics. I started walking across Karanga Harpur Road every day to go to school. Sometimes my dancing is an expression of happiness, and sometimes I'm in a trance and I'm really drunk. Morning class is really not for me. I started getting drunk every night trying to get to bed early, but I still had a hangover going around in my head while sitting in class like this. I didn't wake up this morning when I put on my clean coat, I didn't wake up from sitting in the lecture hall, and I didn't really wake up until I stepped on Karanga Harpur Road again and heard the old piano playing on the side of the road.

My heart ached, thinking about the last time I put a cloth cover on my piano, and thinking about my home that I haven't returned to for two years because of the epidemic. Thinking that my last day in Wuhan is January 21, 2020, I stood in the small house where the entire high school lived and smoked. I'm going to let the smell of smoke go through every corner of the house, and I know I'll still spend a lot of time in this house when I'm abroad. Then I took the subway to Jianghan Road. I now recall again every lovely face on the subway that day, and they didn't even know the bad luck ahead. Such cuteness is absurdly divine, and this divine halo extends to a last date with a friend in Wuhan. She and I went to a small theater on Jianghan Road to watch "Manslaughter". There were only two of us in the theater that day. After sitting down to eat, she recalled that in high school, she often came to Jianghan Road to watch movies with her ex-girlfriend. I smiled and told her that as a lesbian being trained in a military academy, the setting of your life is simply the reality that every fan writer wants. I can only cover up the trauma of reality with the most frivolous jokes. Being gay under the nose of the military system is just too hard to breathe.

I left her and took the subway to Hankou Railway Station, but at that point, I really wanted to take the second line across the river again, from Jianghan Road to Jiyu Bridge, listening to the rumbling water pressure from the subway head run over. I really want to get out of Crab Point subway station again and go to my ex-boyfriend's house. We can daydream about the past every day, until one day, the dream that gave birth to love will end itself, forcing me out of the dream to find the beginning of the next dream. This is how dreams reproduce themselves. This multiplication is never thriving, in fact every existence is heavy in itself. I remembered the day he locked me at home and confronted me with a knife. I've been sitting on the couch crying, but it's not tears of fear, but gratitude of prayer. The various ways to die that I have thought about over the years flashed in my mind, being killed by others is the easiest kind, and being killed by love is the most beautiful kind. He's so mean, but I can't help loving him. This is not pure sympathy, this self-destructive depth is propped up by a strong sense of mutual identification. Besides him, who else can be as bad as me. We only glanced at each other and entangled each other. He is still haunting me. I just continue to dream, I have long stopped using the cold chain as a prison.

I never called the police. Calling the police is like reporting a problem, but my situation has long since missed the definition of the problem. Like "Why do people live?" ends with a question mark, and the line never expresses a question. Auckland was locked down for month after month in the second half of last year. Open a school website, news app, or even Spotify, and a line of help pops up: Lifeline, 0800 543 354, 24 hours a day, seven days a week.

0800 543 354. If I call, what kind of question can I say? Where to start? Go to it on 0800 543 354. I pulled out two bottles of pink gin from the fridge and walked through the ghost town to a friend's house.

"I just found out I have schizophrenia."

She glanced at me without a strange expression. She already knew me, just like I knew her, throwing away a 985 degree in civil engineering and drifting to New Zealand for an undergraduate degree in philosophy and psychology. She pried open the wine and asked, "How did you know?"

"I was misdiagnosed for years."

"How can such a severe mental illness be so easily misdiagnosed?"

"I was so young, only 14, no one believed I was sick, no doctor wanted to diagnose me. It didn't matter, the point was, I was so scared. 'You have depression,' they said. I was desperate Nod. 'Take medicine'. I continue. Depression is pure emotion, depression is pure mental illness. I want to be that simple too - I wish I had this disease - I hold this Lie slept many nights - but I think deep down I knew it was a lie - but I held on to it for years, like we were always under the moon trying to hold on to a love we were destined to lose."

She looked at the bubble in the bottle, "Why do you want to pop it now?"

"In lockdown, it's so quiet, I think it's coming back. I can't seem to lie to myself. But the truth is, we've been together for too many years. I stare at it every day with the fear of loss . But tonight, when I touch this loss again, it seems to be a kind of beauty, and I let it just float away. So I'm here to see you now."

"Then do you still want to continue the treatment in the direction of schizophrenia?"

"No, it's been six years, and it'll be fine."

She smiled: "Alright. I don't think any doctor can cure someone like you."

I don't know how this trajectory will end other than to relapse again. I've thought about many bright narratives, but how could it all end with a warm smile after a mess. Shakespeare said more than 400 years ago: These violent delights have violent ends. But how can I say this today? Not a tragic lament: this brutal joy will end in brutality. Not a factual statement: this brutal pleasure could only end in brutality. Instead, sit on a cliff, with her legs hanging in the air, blinking her red, astringent but glowing eyes, with a shameless smile: "This cruel pleasure must end with cruelty." Then he jumped Go into the abyss to pursue the end, and then drill through the end to start, so I won't stop now