I can’t remember that I was crazy when I was white-haired

I just can’t remember one day of a certain year or month. Tears burst down when reading. I just can’t forget that day of that month. When I am sad, I feel warm comfort. Not everything is bad, not the words are too sad. It is the blank and desolation of life. Muddle along with the messy thoughts of time. The lonely programming life is boring and monotonous. The warm sun in winter spread on the lazy face through the window, wanting to look at the beautiful light directly, but finally it hurt my eyes. Forcing me to bury my head and continue to stay in the shallow desolation. Outside are noisy streets, the roar of cars and the sound of shops, all of which seem lively and prosperous. It’s just that we are trapped in the depression that we can’t get rid. But we must devote our youth to the future without reason or resistance. If you want to sing loudly, sorry, I am exhausted. If you want to run hard, sorry, I have no power. If you want to fight hard, sorry, I am not the opponent of fate. In the end, I still obeyed. No conditions, no hesitation, no expression. Boring life, 3.1-line running, tired, but always running round and round. Who says I have changed? I have never left, just forgot the way I came. That’s all. Anxiety, insomnia, listlessness, depression and ups and downs. I am impatient in the busy day and often forget the next thing to do. It seems to be a teenager old. The window isolates two worlds, two completely overturned worlds, two free and confined worlds, and two noisy and empty worlds. And I am in the world inside. Aimlessly. What kind of world is this and what kind of life is this? How can I grow up fearlessly in this world. The classroom of nuoda is like an empty piano room, and the single is as desolate as a cycle of death. I don’t know how long a person’s life is. I don’t know whether it can be measured by a ruler. It may be long or short. I don’t know what life will be like without an ideal, and I don’t know whether an ideal without an ideal is an ideal. Maybe that man belonged to the blank, and I was severely cut by the years on the day I was born again. Now, I have been covered with bruises. The Green Years reflect only our sadness. When my hair is gray, I may forget the youth I left and the happiness I lost.

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