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我已书写过无数次这样的痛苦，甚至要到了被观者厌弃的程度，它们就像永远笼罩在我头上的阴影。
如今我对于那些记忆和感受变得模糊与含混，好像不痛不痒的皮肉伤，但每一个临场反应的事实却告诉我，它的的确确发生过，它就在那儿。
我忘不掉，却又记不清了，蛮可笑的，好像皮肉与骨撕扯开粘连的组织，那种痛，只是现在被麻痹了。
我也颠倒地分不清到底是爱还是恨，该怎样去定义这一份情感。
我只能像机器一般翻阅着我的日记本，冷冰冰地念出白纸黑字的符文，那好像是一本忏悔录，一张赎罪券，我渴求向某一位神明赦免我痛恨他们的罪，渴求我想如同他们在我梦中用刀一下下捅进我身体一样对待他们。
没有感情，没有心，我不分善恶，难辨哀乐，每晚在眼泪沾湿的枕头上大口呼吸，靠着想象被刀刺入心脏的痛觉迷蒙地入眠。
我只能一遍遍地想：如果我不曾来过……谁又能不羡慕哪吒呢？
我对于父亲的恐惧，像是出于本能似的，我忌惮与他独处。
我胆小，连如今对自我的追寻都颤颤巍巍。
我想让他们向我道歉，但不能，也没有必要了。
噩梦留在过去吧！
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