Distinctive ways of love… I shared my immense joy of adding him as WeChat contact with my history teacher this afternoon. Yet she did not congratulate me and instead asked me, ‘Why but aren’t you two classmates?’ I could answer nothing. ‘How long have you met? How long have you loved him?’ ‘Since Summer, since July’ I answered quietly, deep inside a voice quoth, ‘But how can I say it out under this dazzling sunlight of mid July?’
My love is not motionless.
There are torrents raging under those fumblings, under those unfulfilled and pitiful tricks.
My clumsiness is the overflow of my ocean of deep emotions. I cannot control them myself, as they intentionally wishing and struggling to escape my body and pour themselves to you, prove themselves to you, saying this is me and this is all i have, like a dead body of a wingless white bird be pushed onto shore, like a powerless yet filthily dependent laying-on-you burden that hopes to be accepted by pretentious contempt and warm embrace.
Nevertheless, I will not show you tears, I will not show you my emotions, cause I dare not. They are too private, too intimate, too burdensome to you. I can even imagine you frowning at all these. Love is burden, being love is burden as well in this age, this dazzling age. If you are earnest, you lose, you are weak and will easily be exploited, such middle-class notion of efficiency, yet possessed by all of us.
