Celebrating is meaningless

If life is about celebrating meaninglessness, then learning to enjoy the passing of time amidst vain celebration is a magnanimous self-test.

For example, what do we gain from this perspective?

Cocktail parties, cigarettes, beautiful people—all are fleeting illusions before sunrise, yet we prefer to chase after these meaningless things, just as we chase after our own questionable lives, both real and illusory.

Would you fall in love with someone who imposes their feelings on you?

In the past, her answer was, "Yes."

She might fall in love with men and women who force her into a relationship, or she might fall in love with a murderer who polishes his knife, only to devour her life in pieces after a passionate revelry.

Because of love, that's how she answered.

But if life has no meaning, does love still have value?

Love and life, which is the pitiful one who exhausts everything to follow the other?

If it is love, then life has no meaning.

If life is like this, then love is like a colossal lie. From absurdity, it weaves a milky-white velvet coat over pink breasts, which even the finest, most delicate drizzle can deeply moisten.

But what if neither of them is meaningful?

If you abandon all desires for self-flow and only coldly dredge them up from meaninglessness for a closer look, you will find that the two are actually so similar that for a moment, we always think that having life means having love, or that those who have love will be reborn.

The Creator then laughed cruelly, for while he was playing with humanity, he cast down a curse of contradictions inherent in human nature.

We refuse to waste time on meaningless things, yet we all eventually return to death.

Time is endless, but man only has a hundred years left.

I have said that love and violence are inherent human traits that cannot be escaped.

Would a person reject life, apricot cocktails, and the embodiment of beauty in order to reject meaninglessness?

Everyone knows that red and green don't look good together, so this is a tacit acceptance of our innate desire for beauty. We allow beauty to flow, passing by every window sill.

We are destined to be unable to prove ourselves, because there is never anything that needs to be proven.

Because we are human, we pursue life.

The pursuit of life is the beginning of entering a vortex of meaninglessness.

Love is merely a beautiful beginning in this meaninglessness.

I cannot speak, I cannot write, I cannot imagine, because it is meaningless.

Because it is meaningless, we celebrate, we become hysterical, and we go on until death.

As for the funeral, it was the net that caught the meaninglessness until the coffin swayed slightly with a hoarse whistle, and the meaninglessness seemed to lose its direction and finally dissipated.

Thank goodness.

Yet, when it comes to life and writing, I always seem to be in a state of immense chaos. Trying to sort out my thoughts, I don't know what I want to say or write. I don't know what I've said or written. I have no way of knowing and will never know.

At the end of this novel, I would like to leave behind my favorite quote from Milan Kundera's "Celebrating Insignificance" as a testament to the chaos.

"When people meet in life, they chat, discuss, and argue, without realizing that they are having a long-distance conversation in planetariums built in different eras and places."

Thank you to everyone who took the time to read this book.

See you in the next book.