At the age of thirty-five, which is not relatively young, I almost feel abashed when I feel “driven by love.” I can sense it that love despises me when I give myself up to “lying flat”, and mocks me when I make superabundant oaths of resolution. People have experienced love—but I haven’t. Love is the only thing I long for—when I decide to chase anything, I take for granted that ultimately love is the target.

Such is the reason why I very often feel depressed. I can’t achieve anything in a career, thus riches are separated from me. I am not brilliant in looks; even though I am, or I can be so after some extent of training, I am far from some man who can change his conditions “as a male.” When I go into the street, I dare not look at girls revealing even the least beauty; when I look into the mirror where I am, I attempt to ask: Is this better than a mediocre image?

For several years I have endeavored to become a better version of myself. I try to look smartly clothed. I make effort to lose weight. But the uppermost thing for me is that I should be equipped with knowledge and wisdom. For this reason I have done many “useless” things: learning English and dressing myself up with it—to be like a writer, a translator, a lexicographer, and principally a thinker. I believe the inward brilliance of a man is overwhelmingly more critical for deserving love.

If I were a man who is easily brought down, I would surely give up love, instead of being driven by it. I am always restless when I rest. I can never forsake the pursuit of love, but am always reminded by myself that all I should do is to struggle so as to move on. When all is said and done, the eagerness to put my best foot forward is the worthiest thing that love has bestowed upon my life.