Walking slowly to the library, I thought about a perfect world. A world that I can just sink into reading books without worrying anything. The world that I don’t need to worry about my cooking skill, about I was running late for school. The world that I don’t need to worry about my future. The world that I don’t need to wonder what direction to go.
There is no perfect world.
So many things I have to do but nothing I want to do.
And then I suddenly realize it almost the end of the week. How fast the time life. So how I still feel how slowly I approach the death. Will I become a second Ivan Ilyich who regret his life?
I don’t want people to leave me.
I don’t want to hurt people.
I don’t want to hurt myself.
But why I keep doing it?
Until when I will be free?
And by the way, what is freedom? Or just like Kafka in Kafka on the shore said freedom is an absolute lonesomeness?