I was sitting in this underground little food court, breathing the muggy air, eating a spicy food, watching people coming in and out, full of life, full of noise, full of hope. Yet, I kept wondering that everybody here has one type of headache or another in their lives, just the same. But how ignorant we are of each other. We judge people's mind from such a shallow observation, yet have no mean nor much interest in knowing what they really are. The only thing we know is that they must have something that bother them, make them sad, make them happy, make them mad, make them forget the life troubles for a moment, and make them fall into a sinking feeling late at night that they felt giving it up.
That's how I felt. The two weeks have been a tough time. I knew it's coming. Mentally it's such a sure thing that I felt watching a train approaching a station, however slow it may be, it is coming, and there is no other way out but to deal with it. Facing reality is difficult, not only of his deterioating health, which is rather natural and inevitable, but to realize what is lost is loss, and there is no turning back the clock. All the old memories flushed through my brain and choked me without mercy. There it is, there they are, look at them, yes, look at them, because regardless whether you are looking at it or not, it is staring at you in the face, and that's the reality.
How sad. I felt I wasn't going to make it. Where to begin? and where to end? I lost it in this storm without the slightest understanding of what went wrong and why it happened so quickly, so thoroughly, and so painfully. It's hard. This is really hard. I could only tell myself to keep pedaling, keep head above the water, keep breathing, keep the old routine as a string attached to the life I know and I like, to keep it sane. Such a lonely fight. Not that I'm afraid of taking it on. There is nothing to be afraid of, what will come will come, what will leave will leave. I followed my instinct, my experience of the best I-know-how, and I know I can survive even it's a lost battle. Yet, the process is too hard. I can understand now people in depression will take their lives just like that. It's easier, really. Not that there is not hope, but the path to get there, to get even closer to that hope, is hard, too hard to bear, too hard to imagine, too hard to recall, too hard to be forgotten.
— by Feng Xia