This summer has passed a bit too quickly.

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I. About the Sailing Ship

Every time I scroll through news and forums, I feel a sense of anticipation. Where will this massive ship, loaded with people, swaying yet roaring, eventually sail to?

I forget who said it, but where there are people, there are factions—though even kindergarten teachers say that.

Sometimes I wonder, can the Wandering Earth project really succeed? After all, it hasn't even been a few decades, and some have already forgotten why they set out in the first place. The ship is bustling with noise, filled with flags. What color, I wonder, are the flags at the bow?

II. The Blues

I listened to a depressing song on my way to work this morning, so I felt terrible all day. But I have to work, and I don't have time to write long essays. By noon, I wanted to take a nap. After work in the evening, I just wanted to lie down for an hour before getting up to play games. Near ten o'clock, a friend noticed I wasn't in high spirits and wanted to chat. Although I really wanted to talk to her and wasn't tired at all, I still had to go to sleep, otherwise I wouldn't be able to get up tomorrow. Even so, I was still tired when I woke up in the morning. I don't know how others can sleep so little and still manage. I deleted that depressing playlist, and just like that, I wasn't depressed anymore.

III. The Moon

I have a real moon complex; I believe that looking up at the night sky is a beautiful thing.

There are some things that sound exceptionally beautiful when spoken under the moon, amidst the stars.

I often find myself looking up at the sky in the courtyard, chatting with others, saying things I wouldn't usually bring up during the day. Whenever that happens, I always want to pull the person on the other end of the phone to my side, to look up at the same night sky with me. Because the words I say at that moment are only complete when accompanied by the sky in my eyes. When I say those things, there really are moons and stars in my eyes.

I have never been a person favored by luck; few things I look forward to with all my heart ever turn out as I wish. Yet, life often gives you a sudden surprise like a playful wink, and that momentary joy carries you a long way. These little treasures of moments are my own unique good luck. Many years ago, a group of us sat by the road, looking up to find the first star. They were chatting about interesting things that happened at school, about who received a love letter from whom. I didn't listen carefully; my neck was sore, and my eyes were dry, but I refused to blink. Finally, I joyfully discovered the first star in the sky. Just as I rubbed my eyes and was about to cheer, the night sky was already dotted with stars.

Along with the joy of that time, Happy Mid-Autumn Festival.

In fact, we are looking at the same moon when we look up.

IV. Screw It

I want to meet someone like this.

When I'm lying in bed on vacation scrolling through my phone, he knocks on the door, rushes in, and says "screw it";

When I'm walking downstairs alone in the evening with my headphones on, he catches up from behind and says "screw it";

When I'm drinking and talking about the past, and the more I talk, the more I have to say, he suddenly fills my glass and says "screw it";

Damn, how can there be such an annoying person? When I hesitate, prepare to give up, watch others' backs disappear, and tell him that's just how life is, he grabs my collar, says "screw it," and then pulls me along to run with him.

V. Occasional Reflections

Reflections written whenever they come to mind. Looking back at what I've written over the past few years, they all carry a strong personal style.

Whether in the first person or other perspectives, the narrator rarely contains any emotion. Adhering to the principle of storytelling, the depiction of psychology is always very restrained. This may stem from a lack of self-confidence; I only know what happened, but I dare not be certain of what they are thinking inside.

If I explicitly write that he is happy or sad, there are no other possibilities for him. Come to think of it, my favorite article in the past four years is "Miss Han." Miss Han is a girl who can hijack someone's heart with just one look. Her hostages are all willing to die for her. But there is someone who crosses the hail of bullets and the jungle of thorns on the battlefield to rescue the hostage who had bound themselves in the cabin.

I really like that person; perhaps I am waiting for that person. Just like Rick, who speaks bird language, waiting for someone to open the cage he created himself and give him the meaning to walk out. Even if he knows deep down that everything is meaningless.

In these few years, I have been very talkative and have met many, many people. I also once thought that some of them were the people I was waiting for. Some liked my colorful cage, some didn't. But these two are opposites; the more people who like the cage, the more my self-identity inside is stripped away. It even gets to the point where the cage is actually me.

This has been the theme of these few years: continuous questioning, continuous waiting, but never an answer. To this day, I have only written down "letting things take their course." Anyway, I'm about to step into the next chapter of the story. If the next chapter isn't so boring that I don't even want to type, perhaps I can try to add some psychological descriptions.

Those who love masks don't want to see the blue face, Those who love the blue won't look at the colorful mask.

Is it the mask blocking the front, Or the shadow hidden behind?

Dance music, wine glasses, Mr. Smile behind the soundproof glass.

VI. Graduation

Every year at this time, I write graduation wishes. There are indeed always people I want to congratulate who are graduating, but I also think to myself that if I send blessings like this, I will also be able to receive them when my time comes.

In early June, I discussed the graduation season planning with my teacher. I suggested, "Why don't we shoot a short film?" I'm not someone who cares much about honors, but I have an irrepressible desire to express myself. Of course, corresponding to this is my hopeless procrastination. There is so much I want to say about these four years that I wrote a script in just two hours.

But in the end, this short film was never made. It contained too many of my hidden selfish motives. I insisted on shooting a scene of the protagonist running, but he didn't run with effort. I originally wanted to have him run a few more times, but then I thought of myself outside the play—I have never run with all my might. How embarrassing it is to run with all your might and look ugly. But in the script, I wrote about little Fatty who keeps running, and gave him the best ending.

"Why must you add romance to a graduation youth short film?" I was asked. Actually, I didn't want to describe a beautiful love story between a boy and a girl; I just simply wanted them to separate. Someone might grow from this, or perhaps not. This is my understanding of youth. I absolutely love the scene where the boy sends the girl a photo of the sky outside her building. Because I didn't send it.

At the party, I was holding the microphone and chatting when I suddenly started crying. I quickly explained that it was because I felt guilty for not doing a good job as the class secretary and not doing a good job in class branch construction. What a joke, how could I be someone who writes self-criticisms? I just felt that graduation came so abruptly. But time is indeed moving on as usual. Even if you don't sleep, tomorrow will come, and you will have to step onto the return train. Even if you don't mention the end, people will leave one by one. Fate uses such simple means to constantly toy with my emotions.

At the end of the script, the protagonist sits alone watching others take graduation photos, not participating. This is my own personal touch. There is still so much I want to say; if you want to listen, I can accompany you and talk slowly. But thinking about it, there is no chance, so I won't say it.

Splendid mountains and rivers, bamboo sticks and straw sandals, carrying a sword, looking for a home.

April.

April is here again.

I have discovered that what people call tolerance and understanding probably stems from selfishness and indifference.

Supporting all your decisions is just because you are the one making the decision;

、「Telling you to stick to your own choices is just because they are your choices;

And ignoring and indulging the shortcomings of those around you is just that.

Detaching yourself, praising you, agreeing with you, watching you succeed or fail with cold eyes, without sorrow or joy, because in the end, the only thing that matters is yourself. People never complain about having too many such agreeable chats, but they will never reveal themselves completely in front of such people.

So, while I feel that people who recklessly step into others' hearts are offensive, I also envy them.