Chapter 827
Words:718Update:22/06/25 06:09:06
Originally, this chapter should have been published yesterday. I was planning to take a long vacation. My condition for the past two months has been very bad. I feel really tired. Since I was born, I have never felt so alone. It was like I was trekking in the center of the desert. In the sandstorms, I gradually forgot my companions, my enemies, and my goal.
I looked around blankly!
Was there … supposed to be something there? Obviously there is, why can't I remember?
It's funny. I have always loved solitude. Compared to the noise of crowds, I would rather live alone. But, but, it turns out that getting along with me is not so simple?
Maybe I should give up being a perfectionist. Then I won't be stuck in a maze in every plot. I'm afraid that I will make an irreversible mistake if I take one step. So I hesitate and hesitate. In hesitation, I miss more.
Forget it. You have been making mistakes all along. You just don't want to admit it.
I have tried countless times to read the books I have written. This one, the one before that, the one before that, but I can't do it. There are too many mistakes. I never recall the so-called childhood, so-called youth. I don't know why, but the pain is especially deep. It will never heal. I even wonder if there was really happiness and laughter. I might as well give it all up!
Anyway, I can write a great novel to make up for it. But, what if I can't do it? What if I repeat the same mistakes? What can I use to make up for it? I am already so weak. How can I show weakness to anyone?
I would rather close my eyes and indulge in the illusion than open my eyes and look at this broken world and myself. He was like a willful and stubborn child, rolling around in the mall and crying bitterly. I just want that toy no matter what!
But damn it. I know that I can't get anything in this way! Stand up, don't cry anymore!
Although I have said countless times that I will treat it as a job, it is really difficult. Unknowingly, I have put too many things on it. Personal dignity and value, the meaning and proof of existence. Is this a sickness?
I have wanted to delete this text several times. Isn't silence the best way to deal with pain and helplessness? Why should I endure the humiliation? However, there is an answer that can't be found in a hundred diary entries. There is a question that can't be answered in a thousand lifetimes.
So, I need to use this method to end it. I need to admit my weakness in front of tens of thousands of people.
"Well, a third-rate author like me often writes unexciting plots!"
However, even if I keep making mistakes, I still want to continue.
Hey, answer me. Is anyone listening? Is anyone waiting? If he was alone, he really couldn't go on!
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