我胆小如鼠

This is my writing journey from 1986 to 1998. After more than a decade of long nights and clear or gloomy days, what is left of the years? I feel that my memories come only in dribs and drabs, and they are fleeting. Looking back is sometimes like leafing through an old calendar. The good times and the bad times that had occurred in the past become the same color, and the writing on the yellowed paper is the same dim and indistinguishable. This seems to be the way of life, experience is always more vivid and powerful than memory. Memories appear after the passage of time, like a straw floating before the eyes of a drowning man, and the self's salvation is only a symbol. In the same way, memory does not restore past life, it only occasionally reminds us of what we have had. And such reminders are often proud to be falsified, but people also need to steal memories to satisfy the vanity of the heart, to make the past life rich and full. My experience has been that writing is a constant reawakening of memories, and I believe in such memories Not just for me, it may be the image of a time, or a world