Imaginary, yet real.

Perhaps a clean kind of existence—

a human being clearly independent and honest with their own emotions—

is something rare among people of the lower social strata in Asia.

A small 23-year-old girl goes through waves of cleansing her worldview through events that are far from beautiful. Yet her worldview does not grow darker; instead, it becomes increasingly solid. That girl lives by a single perspective: gratitude. She follows Buddhism; she fears karma and retribution. But perhaps the mere feeling of being able to exist is enough to make her cling, almost idealistically, to gratitude—living under the name of merit and virtue. Sometimes even she herself is unsure whether she is afraid, weak, or simply hoping to leave blessings for the next generation.

A long battle for a soul to exist.

That day, it rained heavily on a cold morning. The small girl walked on, accompanied by the soundtrack of her life: *Hopeless Romantics, Six Feet Under, Meaningless, Stitches…*

The melodies of these songs seemed to help her live alongside her own sadness—the thing hidden deep inside a psyche that is easily joyful, easily surprised, and easily empathetic. The songs felt like foretold outcomes written into their lyrics: the way I end a relationship, an effort fading into decay. I stirred up the ashes, awakening what was left behind, yet I still lacked the strength to stand up. They clung to me, the same way old emotions follow a nostalgic person—someone who is always asking why they keep attracting those very things.

She walked to the rhythm of life—the tempo of its songs. She was a small, solitary girl under a gray European sky, in the freezing winter air of the Netherlands at six in the morning, walking through a street corner, then into a park. Then she suddenly broke down as the rain poured, without knowing why it happened that way, because she herself had no clear, definite answer for her own life. A response outlining the required competencies and mandatory certifications.That little girl once walked alone, gazing at the moon—oh, such poetic and beautiful scenes—yet she had also passed through ruins. Those ruins faded with a radiant return. She withered so she could begin a simpler life.

It is difficult, because the girl is only twenty-two and does not like polish or glamour. And perhaps standards of “cleanliness” are not meant for those who go out without makeup, without a so-called slim-fit body. I almost withered away, almost dissolved into the void, when I gave up everything.

Her parents—but they lived by morality, or at least by the image of it. They tried to manipulate the neighbors into believing they were the best kind of people, and the little girl became a support for their wrongful behavior. It is hard to imagine what that was like, isn’t it? And she herself could only imagine things, slowly piecing them together when she was in seventh grade. From then on, she stepped back, retreating behind the stage for other people’s roles. That little girl attempted suicide, then woke up and fought on for her fragile fate like a tragic farce, seeking refuge for herself in ink-filled paintings. She fell silent and only wished she would get cancer or heart disease, waiting for the day of death—the real death. From that moment, I wanted to know who they truly were.

When a man always sets the standard that his children must wake up early and do household chores, yet he presents himself as a very neat and gentle father. He tells others that his children can sleep as late as they want—but in reality, everything is completely the opposite.

Please wait while I write another page—it is also a recollection.