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What is the point of writing a book?

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    ?

    During this period of time, I seldom typed with my fingers. Instead, I often went to the bookstore to look around. Almost every time I picked up a book, I flipped through it, and then put it down uncomfortable. I kept asking myself a question: What¡¯s the point of writing a book?  significance?

    I looked back at the road I had traveled before, and suddenly I intuitively came up with an answer, which was meaningless.  But why should I write again?  I don't know, at least not right now.

    A long time ago, I had the habit of writing essays. Many of them were abandoned by myself, and some were stolen by thieves when they stole the computer.  I have never known what content can be created with this. After all, I am often a person with poor words, at least many people around me comment on me that way.

    It's strange to think about it, people always have a desire to express themselves in some places, maybe they want to be approved by people.  I don't tell the people around me my most straightforward feelings, and sometimes I send my heart to the words, like building a secret garden.  Before, I wanted to tell the people around me that I was writing an article, so I posted it on Moments to tell everyone, and then deleted it after a minute or two.  Maybe it's because I'm afraid that they will see the real me. In some moods, it seems that it's much better to tell people who can't see me.  Thinking about it, maybe this is the meaning of writing a book because of my personality.

    Ever since a few people around me said that I am suitable for writing, I started to think about this matter, thinking that this might be an interesting thing in my boring life.

    It is very difficult to write. I had this plan last year, but I can¡¯t calm down. I often open the document and can only write "Chapter 1", "01", and other meaningless words, and then look at the blank computer.  One night, as if just looking at it like that, I saw a whole beautiful world, and then felt very depressed and felt ridiculous.

    ?One day I started writing out of nowhere, like an eminent monk who had an epiphany and the feeling of flying into the sky, and I kept writing it down, and I still felt a little out of control.  There are too many emotional dramas in the heart, so I won't repeat them here.

    I think of a sentence I wrote: follow the path of the heart, and you will die without regret.  I am a walker, and I try to do what I think of.  To tell you the truth, I have always wanted to climb Everest, and when I get better and my wallet is bulging, I will have to do this sooner or later.

    I feel that I have sowed an unknown seed in this small world. As for what kind of flowers bloom, it depends on fate.  And the spectators should also find another self here, maybe someone will find a dream here, a person, things in the world are flowing in a hurry, and the connection they should have may have been predestined.  Just like when some people see my words, they are destined to be attracted by them. Have you noticed that there is a definite number in the dark.

    Two days ago, I wanted to delete all the articles I uploaded, sentence them to death, and let them disappear from the front of the people. However, every time I log on to the website, I see that the things I wrote have been favorited by so many readers.  Feel warm again.  I was thinking, did the readers who bookmarked my articles have the same state of mind as me at that time?

    A friend who knew I was writing told me: You can¡¯t do that, you can be sorry to the party and the people, but you can¡¯t be sorry to my expectations!

    "You speak with righteous indignation, as if I have committed a great crime."

    "You have committed a crime of murder, a crime of heartbreak!"

    "Oh. How do you say it?"

    "It's like you gave birth to a child, and you don't want it as soon as it is born"

    In the evening, I drank wine, sat on my desk, turned on the little night light named "Moonlight Treasure Box" given by the old man, and was groggy, thinking about writing essays in the dead of night.  In this dark night, in this blur, in this drunkenness, I still feel that it has no meaning.

    I only vaguely remember a sentence I said before: But I want peace of mind, and I also want to return my heart to my heart.

    The temperature in the palms dissipated, and I only saw the deeper palm lines left by my years. These hands will gradually dry up with time. I asked, what did I grab?

    Some memories are blurred and faded, but some memories are more and more impressive, like the genes that were born, rooted in this body until the moment of death.

    ? Back home, with a cup of hot water, for a moment of pleasure, I also feel that life is so beautiful.  How many years have we lost willfully, only now do we cherish it cautiously.  If it is repeated again, perhaps people will only become calm and down-to-earth after hitting the south wall.

    The dream of youth is light, beautiful and boundless, can turn wind into rain, can make thunder sigh, and years are the thread that holds us, the purpose is to drag us into a reality, heavy and tough.

    want to come,

    a.  (remember this website URL??www.hlnovel.com
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