I don’t know if there is an end to this kind of life–I seem really ticked off very easily if thing do not go as my will. Last night after a burst of tears, I thought whether smashing things or boxing would be a better way to vent. This morning I shed tears again. My eyes are still tired from my sleeping and crying. Mom used to say tears wouldn’t be worthy any more if I cried that often. I believe my tears have swept away my depression. I always sense something may go wrong. As the theory goes, things can be wrong will go wrong. There IS something wrong with me. I don’t know how to feel good about life. No way!
Yesterday I glanced a title in an old newspaper–You are sad in the dark if you are sad. I didn’t read the content. I am sad no matter in the brightness or in the dark. Because of sadness, I cry; because of sadness, I cannot write well; because of sadness, I lost interest in everything, including my vacation, my appetite and my hobbies. The wonderful inspirations which used to haunt my mind is no longer around me now. So I become an out-of-source, self-abase, inconspicuous and lousey writer. No reader will give a damn about me. All I write will be only appreciated by myself. The world suddenly bewilders me–so fuzzy and is spinning around so fast. Do I see the glaring ray of light from heaven or a completely pitch dark abyss of hell?
How many times does a human being cry in his/her own life? We were crying to come into this world; we might cry in pain to leave this world too. So they are our first and last cryings. But how many altogether in one’s life? Nobody can figure it out.