Chapter 77 postscript

Someone once said to me: "You are not the novel you wrote, and I am not the character in it." In an instant, I woke up. I always wanted to be the person in the novel I wrote.I am the God of my novels, of joys and sorrows, of how much one loves another, of all scenes.I long for myself to be deeply loved by someone like the protagonist.That kind of love made me lose my sense of the world and ascended to heaven. I am also the God of the prose I write, content in a self-created world, but ultimately refusing to admit that the real me lives in a world full of regrets.This kind of regret will not be as beautiful as words.

At the end of 1992, I started writing a column for Ming Pao in Hong Kong, and by the end of this year, it was exactly ten years.Ten years have passed by, many things have changed, and so have I.From an opportunity ten years ago to various changes ten years later, I seem to understand fate better, and I seem to understand it less.Where am I going?Will the love I embraced be by my side tomorrow? Those who write are always looking for troubles, and even dig an abyss, let themselves fall, climb up, and fall again, accumulating so-called life experience and wisdom to support his never-satisfying works.

I sometimes can't explain why I do something any more than I can explain why I want to hurt someone when I love them.I thought I had grown up, but I turned out to be weak and weak.Perhaps, as someone said, what I love is myself, and I fall in love with myself. I don't know what the sky will be like in another decade.The only thing I know is that I yearn for an endless hug.I'm so stubborn to believe it exists.