Chapter 5 The fifth chapter is different photos.forgotten by the world

For 3 years I couldn't write.Unable to type a complete line on the computer.Away from the crowd, and almost forgotten by the world. When I start questioning my writing, it's a form of self-doubt.Maybe, I feel old, I like the old and passing things, I like the dignity and simplicity of the retro, and I don’t accept new transformations, technology, worldly pleasures, evolving values, fashion, popular spoken words...all those who are enthusiastic about being watched and being watched Everything that follows.Nor are they convinced by authority, idols, groups, or organizations.All kinds of things around give people the illusion that they seem to be full of energy and renewal, but inside they are poor and empty, packed with forms.

As a writer, I admit that I have narrow interests.If you hear the radio broadcasting news in a taxi, you must ask to turn it off.I don't care about everything that comes and goes with the times.A slightly closed life is necessary to filter out redundant information, concepts, opinions, insights, and all secular ways and rules that appear in various guises.No matter how prosperous the material is, no matter how advanced the technology is, people cannot feel the true quality of their own existence.Although human beings try to avoid all kinds of arrogance and childishness, people in any region of the earth, no matter whether they are in a modern city or in the remotest corners of the earth, must pay attention to the problem of how to discover and face the self-structure under the premise of survival. authenticity.

Everything that is big but insignificant, false, prosperous, empty, and broken is just appearance and form, not the root and direction.Maybe it can be used to fill the gap in time, but it doesn't guide the soul.Because of the lack of security, individuals tend to hide and disappear from the collective and the trend. In essence, it is a weakness of will and independence. Although I am in a seemingly chaotic era, I am a professional writer, but for a while I completely lost my direction.I don't know how to write, what to write, and why.These three questions are enough to make a desperate writer do nothing for a living.This proves a very elementary truth: people can only be defeated by themselves in the end.

My ego is lost in the bewilderment and inappropriateness of this age.During that time, there was nothing to do, and the only thing I could do was to read and walk. Buried in a pile of ancient books, all the words left by the dead.Customs, human feelings, crafts, architecture, opera, poetry, history, medicine, legends, food, textiles, street structure... The time when old books in vertical and traditional characters are hidden and swept away is like a special encounter, entering the deep, strict and imaginative text among.Enter the world it builds and frames.There is an elegant and determined sense of the moment, which is wonderful.The pleasure lasted so long that it seemed to be secluded from the world.Like a ferry, from here to the other shore, get a space.From a yellowing book by my bed at midnight, from all things old and old.

I suspect that I have lived in those generations for a long time, reincarnated many times.Their messages remain in consciousness, deep-buried unconscious deposits.A parasitic body is like an empty bottle drifting far away in the ocean, with nowhere to go and no use for it.In the era I live in, I am like a person who has come to a foreign country, without roots, without finding a hometown, but longing for the existence of real beauty.Even if it is broken and injured. For example, an abandoned city.Pass the time in the pile of old papers.Then stuff a map in your bag.