The word “personal well-being” popped into my head at an absurd moment, as if I understood something. Then, impatiently searching around for it in my mailbox

In doing so I just want to find the last time someone, under what circumstances, said to me that the most important thing is to maintain the personal well-being, or perhaps not to maintain but to keep, as the former always implies repair, and repair itself is temporal: it implies brokenness and the desire to try to save it.

This crying and typing self makes it hard for me not to think of my self from a year ago, three years ago, or even six or seven years ago. I gave glyphs to these moments in the past in my laptop or diaries, and more crushing moments were simply lost to this forgetful me.

I stopped writing about emotions because I found I couldn’t relate to them. What I liked so much, what I suffered so much, what I struggled with, what I resented, all seemed a century away, even more difficult to empathize with than in the last century. Only the event, only the specific event itself, the sound, the space, the smell can bring out some of the memories. When did I start relying on such a moment and a keyboard that was never limited by the speed of writing, like a straw that saved my life? When did I discover this incomprehension, and have been in such a mess for so long? My experience is the literary experience, a third person that I occasionally fall into, often detach from, and never understand.

I don’t look in the mirror when I wake up, I’m not at peace when I go to bed, and I’ll probably go to sleep with West Lake again tonight. No Tomorrow