As I look around the stuff on my desk, there is a sense of 'closure'.
An end. A full stop. The conclusion of a chapter.
There is also a sense of deja-vu. Just earlier this year, I closed a chapter of my life in Shanghai. The same sense of closure. The time to move on. The termination of a process. The wrap-up of a lifestyle.
As I grow older, the experience of the closure of a chapter increases not with gloom or reluctance, rather with a tinge of nostalgia and melancholy. The flow of emotions has weakened, but an inert ability to let go has strengthened.
Page by page, chapter by chapter, book by book.
If I can only close every chapter that easily, I'd close the chapter on him too. And crush that chapter under many many thick books. 压死他。
Short and nonchalant replies. I can do that too. I can dun even reply.
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