空虚

很奇怪的... 生活又再度陷入空虚之中。这种感觉时不时都会重复，从高二那年就开始感到那样，也不知道这种感觉何时开始... 何时将结束。茫茫空虚之中，像是一个天才无法发挥其特长，就如英雄无用武之地。万物渐渐无法夺得我的注目，更何况是那些烦琐零碎的书本，也只是视而不见罢了。

我曾说过，想彻底明白我的这本不想透露的日记，必须懂得三种语文。华文，英文想学上手且易，至于第三种既是我自己的语文，当中的奥妙呢，是它可以随形所遁，意义藏在勉强可以用字眼来表达的文字中。毕竟字眼无眼，无法看穿我的心，我又怎能把我心事寄托于它们呢？

每当空虚时唯能躺在床上，脑子尽想一些非常离奇的怪注意。这些不可思议的思想能把我空虚感抑制住，再把我遣进梦境中，但醒来之后，空虚感没一次不加深，没一次不变本加厉。这空虚就像毒瘾，表面上看来没怎么一回事，但那心情也不知道该怎么形容。虽看起来我还像是个普通的人，但如果把我脑袋转移到另一个身上，他也许崩溃死亡吧？

光阴似箭，我已经向光阴借了不少时间来抑制我的岁月。说真的，可能再也拿不出什么向光阴抵押所借下的时间了。刚才还想找人聊聊，但想来想去，我这20年来没几个人（或说没人吧！）是真正了解我的。正所谓知音难寻。想来想去，最后还是写在可怜的秘密日记里，唯有这个作者最了解我，所写的就是我的心声。想着想着，还真有些遗憾，依照这样的速率寻找知音，恐怕还得等上好几年吧...


Strangely, my life like living in a emptiness again. This feeling will be repeated from time to time. This start at sophomore, I do not know when this feeling start, and when is going to end. The vast emptiness, like a genius not able to perform their talent, as heroes without a battlefield. Everything drew no attention to me, not to mention those cumbersome piecemeal books, they are just turning a blind eye only.

I mentioned, to understand this diary (which I don't want to disclose), must know at least three languages. Chinese, English no problem for a person to learn it, as the third language is my own language, which is the mystery, with the form that it can escape the significance of the force can be used to express wording of the text. After all, the words, unable to see through my heart, I worry how I can pin my express on them?

Whenever feeling emptiness, I lie on the bed, the brain would like to do some very strange attention to the bizarre. Thinking of these incredible sense of emptiness I can inhibit live, and then I was sent into dreamland, but woke up, not a sense of emptiness is not deepened, not once does not worsen. This emptiness is like drug addiction, on the surface seems no matter much, but cannot describe the inner feelings. Although I look like an ordinary person, but if I transfer my soul to another person, he might collapse and death?

Time flew like arrows, I have time to take a lot of time to curb my years. Really, may never return the mortgage under the time. Looking for people just to talk, but think and think, I hardly get someone (or no one) who truly understand me. The so-called real friends are rare. Thinking again, I can only write in the pathetic secret diary, I know this author know me the most, the book record the voice of my heart. Think again, I feel regret for myself, in accordance with the rate of finding such a knowing-friends, perhaps it must be years ...