I find some people are unable to love others and be loved. In the novel Norwegian Woods, Nagasawa was unable to love other people, but he was passionately loved; In the novel The Sense of an Ending, Tony was not possible to be loved. In some sense, he does not feel he deserved any form of love. The world is such an unequal, but in a weird sense, equal place: some people get their happiness from love; some people from solitude, which means not being bothered by love at all; some people are miserable for a lack of love; some people literally suffocates from too much love and attention, like the girl in the Korean movie Beauty.
I can never picture what an orphan must feel like. Whenever I feel blue, the thought of home give me a lot of power. The love from my family makes my heart feel secure and strong, and thus I can be spared of unpleasant silly conjecture, which usually is the cause of sadness.
People are born unequal. Why does the world work this way? I struggle between going to 28st and 5 Avenue to buy bubble milk tea or not, eating BBQ or Chinese hotpot, going to class or calling in sick, while people in depression struggle between jumping from a 40-meter building or not; people in poverty struggle between feeding child A or child B. And what's more, people are so forgetful: this moment I cry for a documentary on Africa poverty, next minute I leave half of my plate of food untouched.
It is April, and the weather is still sooooo damn cold. I panicked for the late coming of Spring. It might not come to earth this year at all. The constant coldness is killing me. I want to have my hair cut short again.
Here is a display of how my mind wanders from love to hairstyle. Recently I have been so fucked by homework, I have the feeling that I am losing my uniqueness. Everybody has their uniqueness, which wears off as one grows up. Isn't it sad?
I can never picture what an orphan must feel like. Whenever I feel blue, the thought of home give me a lot of power. The love from my family makes my heart feel secure and strong, and thus I can be spared of unpleasant silly conjecture, which usually is the cause of sadness.
People are born unequal. Why does the world work this way? I struggle between going to 28st and 5 Avenue to buy bubble milk tea or not, eating BBQ or Chinese hotpot, going to class or calling in sick, while people in depression struggle between jumping from a 40-meter building or not; people in poverty struggle between feeding child A or child B. And what's more, people are so forgetful: this moment I cry for a documentary on Africa poverty, next minute I leave half of my plate of food untouched.
It is April, and the weather is still sooooo damn cold. I panicked for the late coming of Spring. It might not come to earth this year at all. The constant coldness is killing me. I want to have my hair cut short again.
Here is a display of how my mind wanders from love to hairstyle. Recently I have been so fucked by homework, I have the feeling that I am losing my uniqueness. Everybody has their uniqueness, which wears off as one grows up. Isn't it sad?
As always, je suis toujours comme ca. And that's the problem.
Young for You
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