It was like reading the script before watching a movie—every suspense was gone. He wanted surprises, but he knew there would be none. He wanted the unexpected, but he knew everything was within his expectations.
He realized he had walked into a dead end.
There was a wall ahead and a road behind him.
But he did not want to go back. He had already walked that road and did not want to walk it again. He could not climb over the wall, because that wall was himself.
His experience, his thousand years of accumulated knowledge, his eyes that saw through everything.
Those things had trapped him here.
He was too clear-minded.
Like a fish trapped in a transparent tank.
The tank walls were transparent. He could see the world outside, but he could not swim out. The world outside was lively; fish swam, aquatic plants swayed, and light shimmered.
He knew it was all real, but he could not touch it.
He tried to crash into the tank wall.
Not with his body, but with his heart. He tried to trust a stranger, tried to take part in something boring, tried to feel happy or sad over some trivial matter.
But he could not do it.
Because before his heart even hit the tank wall, it told him: This is fake. Who are you pretending to be?
It was not that he did not want to rejoin the world. It was that he could see at a glance how childish, false, and fleeting everything was.
It was like making an old man play with mud, eat spicy strips, and drink cola. His body could do it, but his soul knew—the fun had long since vanished.
What he wanted was not to "pretend to be happy," but to know full