A Journey of Sorrow
These past few days on my business trip have finally allowed me some peace and quiet. I enjoy carrying my heavy camera around, and in my camera bag, besides the camera, there's also a collection of essays. My heart is in turmoil, and I need these books to soothe my turbulent and chaotic inner world.
I sit alone on the balcony of my room, leaning against the window, brewing a cup of tea, and picking up the book to savor it. Perhaps in this day and age, few people still have this kind of sentiment. I prefer to express my feelings through writing in a calm, serene, and simple way, even preferring to use inferior ink, because the poor quality of the ink makes the pigments mix unevenly, giving the handwriting a more textured feel. I've always been someone who loves to find joy in writing, but life is often contrary to my wishes. I rarely have enough time and quiet space to read anymore, let alone recite those stirring masterpieces aloud without restraint. This is the tragedy of my life, the helplessness of living, and a compromise with reality.
On the surface of life, I am merely one of the masses in the marketplace. Yet, beneath this superficiality, I am uniquely individual, so devoted to the pursuit of high ideals in reading, so obsessed with the game of pen, ink, paper, and inkstone—possessing an unchangeable duality. My overly sentimental personality has added a touch of melancholy to my character; sentimentality and melancholy gradually surround me. I lack rational analysis and rely more on emotional assumptions. Perhaps this is the origin of my love for photography and reading. As I grow older, I feel I have changed a lot, become more worldly, and experienced more pain. The conflict between my inner self and reality has left me physically and mentally exhausted, and I am quite confused about the meaning of life. Sometimes I think I should seriously pursue scholarship, because publishing my own book has always been a wish. Yet, I have long been bound by the limitations of reality. I constantly indulge in lofty ideals, yet live a contradictory life in the helplessness of the common people. I am forced to sometimes create with aloofness and near-madness, and at other times to navigate the world of ordinary people with eloquence. The twin nature of me dictates that I wander between faith and betrayal; my dual personality means my joy and anger can shift in an instant, even bordering on neuroticism and thyroid-related issues. Helpless, I have nowhere to turn for help, wanting to escape and live in seclusion, yet unwilling to leave the world, unable to sever ties with family.
Often, I find myself lost in memories, immersing myself in the past, hazy, sweet recollections, my eyes always holding a faint indifference, endless bewilderment, and deep sorrow. Over time, I find myself slowly becoming like the lilac-like figure in "Rainy Alley," always pacing back and forth, silently and wistfully standing in the drizzle. I love the impressions and combinations of light and shadow, whether clear or glossy, I always connect these to my own state of mind, thus imbuing the scenery with boundless emotion, letting the emotional landscape enchant me. I also increasingly enjoy reading Li Qingzhao's poems, their gentleness mirroring my own melancholy. I continued to struggle forward amidst the lingering pain, carrying my camera, my books, my diary, and my eternal memories.
I sit alone on the balcony of my room, leaning against the window, brewing a cup of tea, and picking up the book to savor it. Perhaps in this day and age, few people still have this kind of sentiment. I prefer to express my feelings through writing in a calm, serene, and simple way, even preferring to use inferior ink, because the poor quality of the ink makes the pigments mix unevenly, giving the handwriting a more textured feel. I've always been someone who loves to find joy in writing, but life is often contrary to my wishes. I rarely have enough time and quiet space to read anymore, let alone recite those stirring masterpieces aloud without restraint. This is the tragedy of my life, the helplessness of living, and a compromise with reality.
On the surface of life, I am merely one of the masses in the marketplace. Yet, beneath this superficiality, I am uniquely individual, so devoted to the pursuit of high ideals in reading, so obsessed with the game of pen, ink, paper, and inkstone—possessing an unchangeable duality. My overly sentimental personality has added a touch of melancholy to my character; sentimentality and melancholy gradually surround me. I lack rational analysis and rely more on emotional assumptions. Perhaps this is the origin of my love for photography and reading. As I grow older, I feel I have changed a lot, become more worldly, and experienced more pain. The conflict between my inner self and reality has left me physically and mentally exhausted, and I am quite confused about the meaning of life. Sometimes I think I should seriously pursue scholarship, because publishing my own book has always been a wish. Yet, I have long been bound by the limitations of reality. I constantly indulge in lofty ideals, yet live a contradictory life in the helplessness of the common people. I am forced to sometimes create with aloofness and near-madness, and at other times to navigate the world of ordinary people with eloquence. The twin nature of me dictates that I wander between faith and betrayal; my dual personality means my joy and anger can shift in an instant, even bordering on neuroticism and thyroid-related issues. Helpless, I have nowhere to turn for help, wanting to escape and live in seclusion, yet unwilling to leave the world, unable to sever ties with family.
Often, I find myself lost in memories, immersing myself in the past, hazy, sweet recollections, my eyes always holding a faint indifference, endless bewilderment, and deep sorrow. Over time, I find myself slowly becoming like the lilac-like figure in "Rainy Alley," always pacing back and forth, silently and wistfully standing in the drizzle. I love the impressions and combinations of light and shadow, whether clear or glossy, I always connect these to my own state of mind, thus imbuing the scenery with boundless emotion, letting the emotional landscape enchant me. I also increasingly enjoy reading Li Qingzhao's poems, their gentleness mirroring my own melancholy. I continued to struggle forward amidst the lingering pain, carrying my camera, my books, my diary, and my eternal memories.
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