Formal Diary | Slough

A while ago, on a large camphor tree, I saw a row of cicada sloughs lined up at equal intervals, staggered up and down, about five or six.

Friends say that cicadas need to stay underground for years before they can climb up to the trees, ready to perform their final tasks in life—mating, laying eggs, dying.

Life on a tree is measured in days, and life on the ground is measured in years.

Time is not your own.

The deafening sound of knowing is a metaphor for summer, but the female cicada cannot make a sound and is dumb.

I am sick like a female cicada.

Others' "future" is measured in years, mine is in days.

If only there was an oracle that could tell me what my mission was, maybe so, so that I could expect the dazzling eyes and panic of breaking out of the ground in my crawling, dark life, to redeem the fearlessness of the newborn calf.

However, at the moment, I can only be like a small waste, spinning in the labyrinth of time, shrinking my body into a spoonful of tears, and when the sun is exposed to the sun, the corpse will form crystal clear salt and fall into the soil together with the eggs. , which becomes the abridgement number.

Delete the number, delete the meal, delete the sleep, delete the relationship, delete the present and the future, point, point, point, point, point, point.

Slipping back into the mother's womb, which has been slit and stitched again and again, rapaciously plundered, so positive.

: Where are you going to force yourself?

: I feel like you don't seem to love yourself very much.