Thinking back on it now was like reading a diary he had written as a child—the handwriting crooked, the sentences childish and laughable, yet they had been his sincere feelings at the time.
There had been obsession in that sincerity, bitterness in that obsession, and a tiny bit of sweetness within the bitterness.
Even that sweetness had been washed away by time.
He had watched this human drama over and over again.
He knew the script by heart, enough to guess even the next line.
A baby was born, and the whole family rejoiced. An old man died, and his children wept.
When they loved, they spoke of forever. When they stopped loving, they said they must have been blind back then. The poor wanted wealth, the wealthy wanted more wealth, and those with even greater wealth wanted immortality. They fought and struggled, only to end up as a handful of ash.
This play had been performed for thousands of years without a single change to the script. He had truly seen too much of it.
The actors had changed generation after generation, but the lines had never changed.
He used to add a line in his head. For instance, whenever he saw someone carried away by success, he would think, Just wait. In a few days, it'll be your turn to have bad luck.
Now, he no longer did. Why bother? He could recite the lines from memory.
At this moment, he had no destination.
He used to walk because he had somewhere to go—to school, to work, home, an appointment.
His feet had a direction, and his heart held thoughts. Now, he had no direction, nor did he need one. If there was a road, he walked it. When the road ended, he stopped. It was not going