These days, this life. No one, nonetheless myself, would have thought that life could get so mundane, and yet said that everything is just fine. Fine, just let it be. Let the "just fine" days turn into a life. A life still burning more wooden days. Nothing spectacular. Just a little flame in the heart, to burn each day away and with it, willy-nilly. Something like courage, yes. The heart is the hearth.
On another note, it is true: the lesser you read, you lesser you write. But I am not griping. The rest is fatigue. In aging? Or post-CNY blue? I know, there is still some places in my heart I need to go.
And that is what drives me to write.