A summery summer day
I think vaguely somehow.
I am sure that this life is a mission to become a novelist in this family environment, in this birth, in this job.
If there was reincarnation in this world, I would have lived many lifetimes over and over again, and I would have lived my life as a novelist.
Sometimes I was a best-selling author, and other times I died without ever being able to eat.
Each time, in that time and society, it was “making stories”.
Maybe this lifetime was a mission to be a novelist while having another job.
If I thought so, I would just write, a story that could only be told in this time.
And when I die, I will write again, on a different planet, in a different dimension, in someone else’s novel (not the Matrix).
There is no value to me except the will to keep doing this.
Maybe I’ve made a lot of trial-and-error attempts.
If so, I want to absorb all of the living now and sublimate it into a novel.
Test me from God.
And maybe I put a little too much into it. It must be the heat of this summer.
Thinking of the present thinking of the past cicada rain
