Writing is...

foreword

I went to my love shop again today (for details, see [Food Notes] - Datong District, Taipei City | 143POLARIS ).

Chatted with the boss for a day.
While chatting, the boss suddenly asked me, "You like writing a lot, don't you?"

text

What is writing to me?

Writing is a way of expressing.
From a very young age I was an expressive child.
I love talking and watching the reactions of people looking at me.
Since it was the first child in the family, of course everyone was very supportive at the beginning.
It's just that day by day, there are more and more children in the family, and I am no longer that rare star holding the moon.
The cleverness in their eyes has become cunning, and the articulation has become a kind of noise.
So I wrote it to myself and told myself to listen.
I hope I don't forget those moments when I was loved by the stars.
The one who is loved and loved by the stars.

Growing up, writing was a way of escape.

I don't know if I'm the only one who has experienced such an age?
In school, you and your classmates have to get along well, preferably a core group by some definition; homework can't be just passable, it has to be in the top 50 in the school; of course, teachers also need to remember you, but you can't make them feel Your classmates have to look up to you.
Back at home, you have to face the parents who never thought you were good enough, no matter how perfect they were.
So I wrote, and I forged one fort after another by pinching myself with words and imagination.
Hiding in my literal world whenever it should or shouldn't, escaping everything that everyone should bear when they shouldn't be in their teens.

Later, writing is a kind of mirage.

In the first few years of college, I liked to watch Qi Hua Shi, and there was a sentence in it that always made me panic: "Most people in this world are mediocre."

Am I mediocre?

Looking at the works on my computer that always started with a few hundred words, and then quietly decapitated, I dared not ask myself again.
At that time, I was working in a low-paying job, living in a small village where today is no different from tomorrow.
Listening to the same people talking about the same content.
I was really, really, really scared, afraid that one day, maybe one day soon, I would fall.
I'd become like them, complaining about my life all day long, but having no other choice.
No way to escape.
At that time, I could only rely on the works on my computer that were poorly conceived and sentenced to remind myself that I was a dreamer.
Reassure yourself that you will not become the person you fear and hate the most, and convince yourself that you are not mediocre.
Like a person who has traveled long distances in the desert, he sticks to the oasis in front of him with his soul.
Even if you know, it's just a mirage.

But along the way, writing is such a beautiful thing.
The power of words is so magical, so magical it is fascinating.
Two diametrically opposed square characters fell in love, giving birth to another meaning.
For example, "pouring" means pouring into liquid, and "sipping" means wine glass.
But "consideration" means to ponder over and over again.
Why was the pourer's choice barrier so severe in ancient times?
It was so serious that I only remembered to think about it repeatedly, and I forgot to drink.

And many square characters are gathered together, like wheat cubes, which can be stacked to build a world.
Whether beautiful or sad, crying and laughing is so perfect, it's your own world.

But my writing journey has not been smooth sailing.
There are always more and more things that are more important than "likes", such as income, achievements, fame, status.
Many of the worlds that could have sprung up in my mind and were born through my hands, were thrown into outer space called Playthings and Desires before they could take shape.
Accused, beaten, and worn out.
Even my idol Zhang Ling once said, "In the torrent of reality, what kind of shit is literature?"

But my inner love for writing is so fiery and tenacious that even if it is thrown into outer space, I refuse to be silently put out.
And there's always someone adding fuel to it.

And now for me, writing is a religion.

I forgot where I saw such a sentence, to the effect: "We are born in peace and grow in happiness, so literature will be the only way for us to peek into misery and purgatory."
I like the core idea of this sentence, but I am also a bit ironic about this sentence.
Those who are in purgatory and suffering will never think that there will be people in peacetime who come to watch them suffer and suffer, and praise them again: "It's beautiful."
It can be seen that human beings are an animal that is good at asking for trouble.

Therefore, no matter what kind of life, it is like a boxer with a lot more weight than you, mercilessly rounded his fist at you.
Is there such a thing?
No matter how many fists, how many frustrations and how many tortures life throws at you, it is enough because of this event, or just the event itself.
It's enough to convert all the mud in this world into happiness, so that you can splendidly or singly progress in life and in this journey of life, whether you win or lose.
If there is, then congratulations, on the road of your life, whether it is full of flowers or a bruised face, this matter will bite you until the end of your life, like a shadow.
But you're absolutely absolutely going to be happy, even if you can't escape.

Because so am I.