常想细数数电视剧里的那些可爱的奇葩们，比如 GIRLS 里的 Adam，废柴联盟的 Abed。可爱而又奇葩的在于他们遗世独立、蘸一笔异样的颜色去涂满他们的世界。剧中被 Jeff 吐槽为阿斯伯格症（实际应该不是）的 Abed 有这么一种魔力，痴迷于电视剧形象，平常混杂有 Spock 的不近人情，可以瞬间从内到外的转化为任何需要的电视剧人物，甚至在自己的世界创造另一个世界。惊叹于这种魔力，自叹弗如，常对另一个我说，若是此也好，只是另一个我不答应，他算计着许多种可能（对啊，你可以成为所有你想要成为的人），居高的看着一切，却往往不给解。

年会之类的活动是不被讨好的，一大群人在一起所能表现出的构造世界的方式就是一种违逆架起自己内在逻辑观念的时机。其实大多时候是相安无事的，确实如此，并不是所有人的三观相同才能构建这个社会的秩序。当周遭的朋友都表现出一种与己最本源的精神动机相抵触的时候，甚至不得不被绑架，知道我们是如此不同，只能叹息。

每个人都是一本书，每个人有自己的书写方式，自己的内在哲学和逻辑。自己写自己，这是一个不可逆的过程，或者写的糟糕如我，用的不常甚至不待人见的笔法，它可能不带着迷人的辞藻，也许难读，可至少它还有它的价值，它是一个完整的故事，它是一个构建的自己的世界，它有其完备的精神体系。它不是畅销小说，不是快餐文字，不祈望众人来读，遑论读懂。它有它特定的读者。或者越读越理解，或者越读越困惑。

A 同学以前来报告“震惊”的见闻时，我说天下没有稀奇事叫她不必大惊小怪，或者听起来像是带一种历经世事的老道自负，我并无此意。后来说以他人，世上之事，其实不过男人与女人之事，这话同样难免指摘。其实想想，还是如此，如艾略特所说，人生，“出生、求偶、死亡”，这是另外一个角度的答案。 很长时间以来，感觉到支撑自己世界的一种精神的游离若失，但凡想到这世上不过寥寥如此数笔的世界，不可避免的不安稳、不在自己、困惑进而遭受 suffering。自知这种状态难解，今天和汤同学和乔同学见面，snack party 后吃饭谈及其他，心生慰藉。这世上的事情，可爱和不可爱的事情，还散着温柔的亮光。

Worlds Within

I frequently catch myself thinking about those adorable oddballs in TV shows, like Adam from GIRLS or Abed from Community. Their charm lies in how they exist apart from the world, coloring their reality with unusual hues. Abed, whom Jeff jokes has Asperger's (though he likely doesn't), possesses a certain magic—obsessed with TV characters, he typically blends Spock's emotional distance yet can transform instantly into any TV personality needed, even creating worlds within his world. I marvel at this ability and often tell my other self, "If only I could do this too." But my other self doesn't agree; he calculates many possibilities (yes, you could become anyone you want), observing everything from above, but rarely offering solutions.

Group activities like annual parties are not favored—when large crowds gather, the way they construct reality becomes an opportunity to contradict one's internal logic. Most times things remain peaceful, indeed, as not everyone needs identical values to maintain social order. When surrounding friends display behaviors that contradict one's fundamental spiritual motivations, even forcing participation, knowing we are so different can only lead to sighing.

Each person is a book with their own writing style, internal philosophy, and logic. Writing oneself is an irreversible process. Even if written poorly like mine, using uncommon or private techniques lacking enchanting rhetoric, perhaps difficult to read—it still holds value. It's a complete story, a constructed world with a comprehensive spiritual system. It's not a bestseller or fast-food literature, not hoping for many readers, let alone understanding. It has its specific audience who may understand more with each reading, or become increasingly confused.

When student A used to report "shocking" experiences, I'd say there's nothing strange under the sun and told her not to overreact—perhaps sounding like self-important worldliness, though I didn't intend this. Later, discussing others, I suggested that worldly matters are merely affairs between men and women, a statement equally open to criticism. But thinking about it, it remains true, as Eliot said, life is "birth, courtship, death"—another perspective.

For a long time, I've felt the supporting spirit of my world drifting away. Whenever I think that the world consists of merely these few brushstrokes, inevitably comes instability, displacement, confusion, and suffering. Knowing this state is difficult to resolve, today meeting with classmates Tang and Qiao, having a snack party and dinner conversation afterward brought comfort. The things of this world, both lovable and unlovable, still radiate gentle light.