Plain and uneventful, another spring and summer passed; in the blink of an eye, this was already the fourth year of writing books. It was like a clouded leopard perched in a tree, staring blankly at the clouds in the sky. Flying was a dream far out of reach; no matter how much it yearned for the sky, in the end it could not take wing. Life was the branch holding it up, and it had to be careful, so very careful, never to fall. And in the narrow crack between heaven and earth, there was only a small corner among the trees to rest in, barely enough for a cat to sleep for a while, dreaming of a dazzling, five-colored somersault.
People often said that at thirty, one should stand on one's own feet, have a family, and build a career. Yet after walking all the way to today, I was still all alone, and achievements were nowhere to be seen. The future was like faint, drifting clouds, as distant as the Ninth Heaven. I asked, "Where should I be placed, where do I belong?" But the sky gave no answer. And so the road stretched long and far, the seeking brought nothing, and above and below were chains. Then I thought of a lyric from Black Wukong: "There is no cause; all colors are lost and bewildered—why?" I suppose it was because the future was not bright, because I could not find a hopeful tomorrow, and when I turned out my pockets, they were empty again, leaving me with no confidence that I could live well!
Sigh. To compose new verse, I forced myself to speak of sorrow; for the sake of earning a meal, I always bowed my head. This author has crawled out of the snail