Shorthand/writing this thing, and automatic writing.

Suddenly I found that I haven't spoken on Matters for a long time, and I didn't seem to have written anything to record my own fluctuations for a long time. I really am an emotionally driven person. Without emotions, I completely lose the ability to write.

I started writing a diary when I was six years old. The accumulated notebooks, pens and blog posts piled up my childhood. I have always been an autistic and shy and a little unrestrained child.

Until I was fifteen, I really had my own time, no computer, no video games, or even music. That year, I liked to sit under a tree in the evening, using a camping lamp as a light source, and write down lines after lines of homesickness and loneliness on an A4-sized horizontal note pad. I remember I wrote that I left the land where I grew up and came to a foreign place, which is more like a hometown than my hometown, but the language barrier made me completely unable to integrate into the environment, and I was completely unable to communicate with others. I was afraid, fearful, timid, and took everything to myself. enclosed in text and pages.

I write a lot of emotions, a lot of memories. Writing by hand is like a kind of "archiving" to me. Memories are typed out of my mind, stored on a page, and then out of my mind. The memories I have now can only be traced back ten years at the most. The blanks in the previous twenty years are only some strong emotional points, such as my original intention to learn numerology, for example, when I was confessed back then, but because of the language barrier, I didn’t know it at all. Understood, seriously injured that thoughtful boy.

After I went to college, I came to know the game "Automatic Writing". In fact, I have been doing this kind of thing for more than 20 years. I poured out everything in my mind without reservation, and wrote down every word I thought. Maybe one second I was complaining about the wetness of the rainy day, and the next I thought of that gecko hiding out the window and waking me up at seven o'clock every morning.

Writing is a way of self-healing.

When I’m not writing about emotions, I actually hate writing. Every time I pick up the pen and write, I feel that my hand is very important. Because writing is a process that I can’t deceive myself, the frequency gradually decreases. In the end, I stopped writing completely. Because I have no way to write those words of comfort to myself, my words are only resentment and regret.

I always say that I have no regrets, but in the dead of night, I always have regretful memories rushing through my mind, reviewing the stupidity of my youth again and again, and hating myself for being so stupid and evasive again and again.

I was laughed at by my mother when I was a child. I always repeated the topic at the beginning of my composition. It seemed that if I didn’t do this, I would have no way to clarify my thoughts and to derive sentences. Indeed, my mother's observation in this aspect is very keen - words can't deceive people, words themselves and the emotions and motives behind them can't deceive people - I never make any changes, never know any writing techniques, I I can only write down my feelings truthfully, so I can't write a dissertation because I "don't have any feeling" about those things.

I have often been pushed to participate in composition competitions since I was a child. It is funny that I always write lyrical essays in the selection process in school. Writing memories, emotions and feelings are my strengths, even if the topic is to fabricate a character and describe the interaction with him. I can write it down to the tears in the eyes of the readers, but all the competitions test logic, thinking and structure. I have never had such a thing in my mind or in my words.

The university was admitted to my dream Chinese department, where I studied writing and text translation, but I lost the ability to write forever. The phantom continent I imagined and the characters who accompanied me through the lonely life overseas are full of literary flaws. I can no longer see them as adults or friends. They are just my imagination - they have no soul at all fiction. Then I stopped writing, and finally there was no way to go back to that piece of land that had only a thousand years of history and was still a primitive culture.

Until last year, I spent 280 days and nights with my son. His body and mind were both within and connected to me. The joys and sorrows of body and mind were almost instantaneous turbulence. Every second I was with a brand new one. of soul dialogue, I finally have something to write about.

Write about my exhaustion, write about my awareness, write about my expectations, and then my emotions. Then to make a living, I became a holiday parent, and the once-a-week meeting saw me step down as a mother, who was still my child, only temporarily, not growing up by my side.

Then I lost my voice, lost my words.

My thinking has been broken for a long time. In the past year, I have been searching for the real reason with numerology tools. I can hardly describe the image in my mind correctly. ”, the gummy is “QQ”, and there are many, many other things left except “that”—“the one on the left side of the third floor of the cabinet, one by one”, “the one on the tenth page of the book”, “the one next to the hospital” the one", "the one I passed by on the way home last time". I know "which", but I can't name toilet paper, movie tickets, grocery store and beef noodle stand. My friend said that because my Sun and Mercury are in the 4th house of Pisces, my thinking is only 1 and 10, the eight steps in the middle are fleeting, and my language can't keep up with my thinking, so only the first step comes out, The final result is immediately wiped out by the next thought.

I can understand this, but not why.

In the past, I used writing to clarify the eight steps in the middle. Writing will slow down thinking, so I occasionally say that I have a keyboard personality. Give me a keyboard and let me type. I will be more rational, more logical, and more able to speak people. talk.

But no one took it seriously.

Having written so much, I just miss the time when I used to pick up a pen to write. I just miss the years when I could finish writing with four black pens in one month, and I miss the obsessive-compulsive disorder of “I don’t let people touch my black pen, and if I touch it, I don’t want it”. I just, miss the time when I wasn't broken.

That's all.