I want to write a book, a novel, write my story. I'm not sure if it's my story, maybe it's someone else's, maybe it's just some clips that are similar to me, maybe it's me.

It doesn't matter if I'm that big, it's important that I decide to write it down, to record it. I want to see my own story, I want to read my own voice and see if it's the same as I thought.

I didn't want to write a novel, I just wanted to write a poem, the poem is very short, it's not that tiring to write, but fiction is different. I'm used to handwriting word by word, and this is my first novel.

I don't know how many words I'm going to write, I don't know how long I'm going to write, I don't know if my pen is enough, I don't know if I'm going to have enough paper, I don't know how many words I have to say in my heart. I am a person who talks little on the surface and chatters in my heart. I don't know if my story is worth the time you waste.

The idea that made me decide to write a novel was one afternoon when I was extremely depressed. I was miserable, not unwilling, all hopeless, I didn't want any more hope. I don't have any nostalgia for the world I love, I turn on my phone, it's all fake news, it's all fake, it's not real. Nothing will sting me anymore, for my heart is numb, frozen, dead, without the breath of life, without the breath of hope. I just lay in bed in despair, longing for sleep to temporarily replace death and cover up my existence.

I woke up from a nap and fell into a quiet despair again. Despair doesn't need to come at me, it doesn't need to swallow me, because this despair is not external, it comes from the depths of my heart, as if it wants to swallow the whole world. I longed to fall asleep again, there was no news on the Internet to look forward to, and there was no trace of my existence in the world, I just wanted to leave quietly, and if I couldn't leave, then fall asleep first.

I woke up from another sleep, my arms were heavy, but my mind was clear. I turned on my phone and looked at the time, it was 6 o'clock in the afternoon, and the curtains had already been closed by me, afraid of the dazzling sun. I thought of Haizi and wanted to see his poems, so I opened my phone to look for it, and found a novel "The Wind Rises" and started reading. I just wanted to read the beginning and give up, but I got a little hooked as I read it. It seems that there is no story, no plot, but the author writes so delicately. In that sanatorium in the mountains, two sick and weak and sensitive hearts leaned on each other, and I seemed to see the scenery they saw, and I seemed to feel their loneliness. After only 1/3 of the book, I got out of bed and ate a bowl of noodles, found a new journal, opened it, and began to write.

I don't want hope, I'm afraid that this novel will become my hope, and I want to finish it in a hurry. Hurried beginning, hurried over, like my life, no one knows, no one botheres.

When I wrote it, it happened to be the Lantern Festival, and the TV was bustling with fireworks, but I knew that all this had nothing to do with me. I still want to bury myself, close myself, and never turn it on again.

Where does the story begin? Was I born? But I don't remember anything at all. My childhood? Too carefree, and I'm not fit for such memories right now. From my student days? It's really suitable, my school days were full of not being noticed, not being understood, and being as lonely as I am now, so let's start that morning.

I can't remember the specifics, but I remember that morning I was riding my bicycle and carrying my school bag on my way to school. The road is not very wide, and there is some narrow land on both sides. Crops were planted by the surrounding residents, and the crops were not to be talked about, they should be some seasonal vegetables, anyway, for me, a student who does not divide the grains, it is almost the same. There was no scenery on the road, and occasionally there was a tree that I didn't know if it was a peach tree or a cherry blossom tree, and pink flowers fluttered all over the ground, but I didn't know how to appreciate it at the time, just like now. Riding bored, looking at the road bored, I came to school, a cage full of hopes and futures. The door opened, I went in, and the door closed.

I've been through this morning countless times, and these days go by day by day, and I can't see the end at a glance. Nothing special happened this morning, and although I wish something had happened more than you, the school days were so uneventful that there was no need to waste pen and ink.

Let's start with love, I've had two relationships and I've been hurt twice. The beginning is different, but the ending is surprisingly the same. Suddenly said that they broke up, they all said that they were heartbroken, they all said that I was excellent, they all said that I was the best, and they all had new lovers soon after separation. The speed is too fast, so I can't tell whether it is already dark Chen Cang, or the two of them are surprisingly lucky, and they will meet true love immediately after leaving me? The endings are so similar that I often blur them: Did I fall in love once or twice? The effect of two injuries is much greater than 1+1, I still think it's my own problem, it must be my problem, otherwise how can I be abandoned twice, a really good person should be able to submit even a scumbag, a really simple person, a bad boy can't bear to make her sad. So, I should be nothing. The two relationships have occupied more than ten years of my life, and countless times have been wasted by these two people. There must be many such stories, and you have seen enough, there is no need to make you feel sorry for me anymore.

I don't know what's left of my memories, I don't give up on myself because I'm hurt, don't take me wrong. Although I met two irresponsible people, I was not knocked down by them, and at most two straws of little weight were pressed on me.

What broke me down were my poems and my songs, and I forgot to introduce myself, I am a poet and a singer. You must be wondering, why haven't you heard of me? Haven't read my poems, haven't heard my songs. Because they haven't had a chance to show up yet.

The timing of my writing poetry was also very accidental, and one night I suddenly wanted to write poetry, and I didn't have any special feelings, but I was a little inexplicably sad. It took me a few hours one night to write my first book of poems, and from that day on, I fell in love with my desk, my pen and my diary, and I started to write. I want to write an autobiography, a legend, a history, I want to write a subject that has never been written before, a collection of serialized poems that I have created and self-written. Right! A collection of serialized poems.

Writing and writing, I began to paint, and the feelings that were not expressed in the poem, I continued to express them with paintings. I have illustrated each poem, and the painting is also a part of the poem, and the painting expands the artistic conception of the poem. As I painted, I began to write songs again, and the feelings of the songs were stronger than the poems, making the story more colorful, and I also accompanied each song with paintings. In this way, my collection of serialized poems unfolds in three ways: poems, songs, and paintings, expressing them independently, and synthesizing them as a whole, telling a story about the universe, about life, and about me. It's my growth history, my blood and tears history, my sincerity and strength are all in it.

I wrote 25 books and drew 25 books. My works are different from others', they have life and character, and the three of them have their own tempers. My work, like other people's, expresses what the author wants to say with all his heart.

I shouldn't have despaired with my work, but I just despaired because of them. Because they have life, because they are alive before my eyes, because I brought them into this world, and I don't know what to do with them.

They came into the world to see the sun. In the era of self-media, I am indeed too closed. I'm not a good mother, I don't know how to take them out, I choose a platform at random and let them work alone. There are so many books on the site, and I don't know what to do.

I despair my powerlessness, I despair my numbness, I have no way and I don't want to think of a way. It's like a parent who gives birth to a child but can't afford to raise it, and just wants to sink with the child.

My story should not be written into a novel, my words are all in the poem, my feelings are in the song, and my colors are in the painting. Here, I just want to mourn for myself, in this reunion of the Lantern Festival, you are jubilant, and I hold the children in silence, I don't even want to come to tears.

I tried my best to love the world, and at the moment I just want to leave quietly.