My doctoral dissertation has been written for 3 years, and it is finally about to be defended. For 3 years, I wandered slowly among libraries, homes, riverside parks, and cafes. Shaking left, shaking right, writing a few words a day, like working for a commune to earn work points.
Although swaying, but for 3 years, I have worked so hard to declare to people that I was "rushing to essay". Whenever someone asks me, "What are you up to?" I just said confidently: "Catch up with the paper." If I
say too much, I believe it. Once I believed it all, I started to rush into a hurry, with a posture of "No one cares about me, I'm busy". Look, they are busy talking about business, writing materials, evaluating job titles, growing food, reselling state-owned assets, and attacking Iraq, while me, I am busy "catching up papers." Listen, "rushing" to the paper, it is through this bluffing busyness that I have gained a sense of adulthood.
A sense of adulthood is always necessary. I am 30 years old and can no longer bounce around in the park in a lace skirt, throwing afternoon after afternoon, like unpalatable fruit, and throwing it away after one bite.
The direct consequence of false busyness is that I started to put aside my life for the sake of "career". I made a list for myself, which enumerated what I would do "after writing the paper." In the past 3 years, this list has been getting longer and longer, including: watching horror mysteries as much as you want; sorting out my favorite songs and making my own CDs; getting through a video game; going to watch two dramas a week; to an unknown I travel and live there for two months; read world history well; study the political economy of Latin America; learn to dance tango; write shocking novels... In short, I put all my "interests", "hobbies", "desires" and "dreams". "In other words, "life" itself has been postponed until "after the paper is completed." My essay is simply a relative who can't afford to be sick, and he is firmly chained to a small dark room where I can't go anywhere.
But one day, I suddenly thought: What if I accidentally die in a car accident in the past three years? What if I have a heart attack today? Could it be that this means that I might have ended my life before I actually started?
This sudden thought really scared me. Chatting with a friend that day, he said: "I have to work hard these years, earn money, strive to retire at the age of 40, and then travel the world."
I looked at him, silent, and thought secretly: "What if you What if you accidentally died in a car accident before the age of 40? What if you have a heart attack today?"
And those parents in the newspapers often said very moving and moving: "All this is for the children, etc. They have grown up and have a promising future..." I thought secretly again: "What if you accidentally die in a car accident before your child grows up? What if you have a heart attack today?"
I was silently anxious. Feeling sentimental for everyone. Everyone has a long list in his heart, how many beautiful things are written in these lists, but they are always delayed, put on hold, and rot in the attic of time. Why is the question of courage always mistaken for the question of time? And those who are heavy, depressed, and have no alternative, are always called life itself?
