Here I am, with a spoon in my hand, stirring the cream that floats on top of my coffee. The ensemble of metal and mug's porcelain rim produces an unstructured percussion sound.ding ding ding ding ding ding ding. It's like my current mood, without rhythm, but I really want to express something. It is obviously like a jigsaw puzzle that has been played for many years, no matter how many pieces are scattered on the ground, if you persevere, you can always pick them up one by one and build the original complete appearance.There will always be that moment. I'm still excited though.

Because I found that the puzzle of memory is not dead. Memories are gradually accumulated, more and more, more and more complex, so the fragments can never be put together. While trying to remember the old part, I also have to grasp the part that is gradually becoming my life. The jigsaw puzzle that belongs to him is the simplest, least embellished, and most straightforward that I have seen. Anyone who has played jigsaw puzzles knows that complex graphics are easy to grasp, because each piece is so unique, and the coordinates where it should be placed can be quickly known. But the simpler graphics, such as the blue sky and green fields, are often the most difficult to assemble.

Because each piece is too simple and simple, it will take a long time to understand the relationship between the previous piece and the next piece. And connect with yourself. I took a deep breath. Supplemental oxygen, courage. There is also a mellow coffee aroma. Then I'm going to tell a story. A book must have at least one story embedded in it, and if it wants to sell well, that story had better be about love. Tell people what love is, how to love, how to be loved, or define what is true happiness in a serious manner, whether it is best to rely on others to grow old and to rely on yourself, etc.

But I'm not sure when this story begins. If you expect to hold tightly in your hand, it is a love novel. I don't know, but I'm not panicked. Perhaps the story will not begin until the last page of this book, but that is already a luxury. Perhaps the story never sprouts. Just because no one can realize what happened to him at the very beginning. At least I can't. And only after I really know myself can I realize what the happiness I am looking for looks like. But after knowing what once surrounded me tenderly, I may never find that piece of the puzzle again.