Life

Lost in the London Fog: A Man Haunted by Regrets and a Faded Love

The hustle and bustle of London is always difficult to deal with, like expired bulk candy, deliberately discarded in the gray streets and alleys. As soon as the shower passed, the thick and moist mist swelled, and a few traces of dry sweetness penetrated it, making it sticky, like a papery shadow of the sun.

At a quarter past eight o’clock this Saturday morning, the weather forecast on the radio had not yet finished. He glanced indifferently at the gloom outside the window, picked up the briefcase on the desk and the drooped umbrella at the entrance, and hurriedly left the apartment. . It was already bright outside the door, which reminded him of the candle on his desk that he had not had time to extinguish. It was burning endlessly at this moment, burning the remaining night and regrets floating in the air fiercely and scorchingly.

The rain suddenly started falling without any warning, followed by several muffled thunders that bumped randomly among the fine clouds, making him uneasy.

Soon, dark black umbrellas stood like rocks in the tide of people coming and going. The biting wind blew in his face and blew his tie into pieces. He quickly held it down with his left hand. He picked up the briefcase at his waist, and in the second leather compartment lay a copy of Forster’s “Morris”. The title on the cover was badly ink-stained, and most of the pages were curled and yellowed, but he always Keep it with you and look through it from time to time. Certain passages have already been rehearsed in your mind.

In the theater of life, it seems that people’s habit of acting is developed in this way, just like the days when he was studying in Cambridge twenty years ago, immersing himself in thousands of books all night, and going through each chapter of the long night. Loneliness, young and restless love is always abrupt and hasty, and the ink-stuck pen leaves countless scratches in vain on the white paper.

He is not the same as an idealist, he may have been, but after all he no longer climbs the clock tower in Cambridge in the early morning, or curls up in the bathtub with an extinguished cigarette. The poetry manuscripts swallowed up in the winter fireplace, and the shy confessions written between the lines, turned into the dust and ashes of reality, melting into an airtight door of truth made of steel and cement. He finally realized that his problem was not a lost soul or a lost self, but a hopeless lack of desire.

Yes, he saw in his wet shadow the souls of people like Wilde. Those arrogant and dazzling thoughts tasted like sour and bitter candy, causing him to temporarily lose the taste of love, and subconsciously bit the tip of his tongue – the pain was still there at that moment, but the romance was dead.

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