I am a person who’s always “slapped in the face”, just as a few days ago in the Wechat moment I swore that “I would never write in English”, whereas today I itch and go back on my word. But every time I write I can’t bear to read it, and on the way of correction there are always flaws which force me to post and delete, as if I hate that “I am sorry for the audience”. But where are really the audience? I am the only one for myself.

I am apt to go after perfection, but there is only a fine line between the “pursuit” of perfection and the “far cry” from it. If the perfection is unreachable, I truly don’t have to write any more; but if only there is a touch for it, my writing would continue.

Why do I persist? I believe it is not blind desire for vanity, though I thought so before. Now I am like the old man in the park who is writing calligraphy on the ground, and who is slightly appreciated by other people, but still writes for the better part of a day receiving momentary glimpses.