The "middle-aged people" around me don't talk much about love anymore, and it seems that this topic has a clear timeliness, like a bottle of expired pineapple canned food. Even, the words do not want to touch the words similar to "feelings", a look of near-confusion and decadence. They are like carrying a thick case, with a hurried pace of resolute determination to rush the road, and let them dust on the back. For the dull precipitation after being diluted by experience, only the moment of cremation rises to ashes. You can't tell if they're in a hurry or a corpse.
Most people's love seems to be a history of the demise of romanticism... They obediently are lit, burned, extinguished, cooled, doubted, and scorned. This is the emotional change from the free man to the slave, the moment of the neck padlock, the North Star is still shining in the sky, the ta's head has been lowered, and nothing can be seen but dirt. At first, love is an intuitive existence, and later, you can only believe.
Perhaps, for the rest of your life, love will no longer favor you, this is a pessimistic presupposition, like a deep long night pulled open, drowning the stars, no rain-soaked land sniffed up only the rotten smell of vulgar dust, your cervical vertebrae are no longer bright, your knees are faintly painful under the hazy sky, and after the peak age recedes like a tide, pragmatism is your only consideration.
In the sensual kingdom, no one spurs you to pursue metaphysical desires, there is always a blank time of the night that cuts off the rough process of reality, at this moment, courage and enthusiasm are rolling in the memory of searching the intestines and scraping the stomach, the image of yourself walking in the desert Gobi, the dryness between the lips is like the mud of the river, there is no oasis prepared by God, only the water and dry food that have been planned for a long time on the shoulders.
At the side of each retarded step, there are passers-by, murmuring their own philosophies of existence, or sermons leading to some supreme Supreme Dharma, so noisy; the people wandering near the legends of interesting souls are completely unaware of their own poverty, like a water-drawn person holding an empty scoop and cursing a deep well; the mind seduced by goals and plans is accustomed to operable technical logic, and everything about love is being reduced to pure illusion.
Dispel the idea that you must have it to be perceptible, you don't have to run and forge in one place, you don't have to be bound by responsibility and obligation in a contract, you have to believe that nature will bloom the aurora, meteors, and fireflies, and breathe them through your spirit and body, turn over the cascading life, and pave a new universe. What is love? Love is what you believe.
