X years ago, I was obsessed with video games.

     Where exactly did I come from? I don’t know. For now, I’d rather trust the figure below.

     And what exactly is video games? My laptop connects to an alternate world through the wireless internet network of our house, when the index finger of my right hand effortlessly left-clicks the wireless mouse, my 11-inch display monitor — within no more than 0.3 seconds — opened the gate to a carefree world: there, unlike playing the piano, I wouldn’t need to articulate the rhythm and volume by mediating the tension between my ten fingers and the eighty-eight black and white piano keys — because whenever a low-pitch note was performed hectically, I’d want to punish my hands, including my fingers, palm, wrist, and anything connected to my hands. This carefree world, unlike playing tennis, there is no need to slam the racquet on the hard surface of the court whenever a double fault is made — at this instant, a part of me wished that the surface of the court would punish the frame and handle of the racquet as well as the hand and arm connected to the racquet. In this carefree world, unlike in chess, there is no need to concern the life and death of thirty-two chess pieces which are attached to ratings, rankings, titles, monetary prizes, and applauses that constantly flash through my mind day in, and day out —— even the near-kilogram heavy Advanced Endgame Manual placed on the bedside table was imbued as the golden key on route to the relentless and implacable pursuit of chess greatness. Within this carefree world exists endless hairstyles, skins, blood, expressions, tools, friendship, victory, cheers, chuckle, and time, there, does not exist, any disappointments, pains, wallows, ordeals, or withstandings that needs to be carefully understood through experience —— that world is an eternal heaven that could be effortlessly accessed.

     What is heaven? Heaven is hell.

     What is hell? Hell is fantasia.

     What is fantasia? Fantasia is a delusion.

     What is a delusion? A delusion is enclosure

     What is enclosure? Enclosure is burial.

     What is burial? Burial is to oblivion.

     What is to oblivion? To oblivion is severing pain.

     What is severing pain? Severing is perishing.

     What is perishing? Perishing is inexistence.

     What is inexistence? Inexistence is distrust.

     What is distrust? Distrust is the lack of decision.

     What is the lack of decision？The lack of decision is not-expressing.

     What is not-expressing? Non-expressing is silence.

     What is silence? Silence is to drown.

     What is drowning? To drown is to fade into oblivion.

     What is fading into oblivion? Fading into oblivion is to become desertedly empty. What is desertedly empty? To be a desertedly empty space is to drift freely in the boundless sky, or to dance and sing at will in a hall eternally without exits, fortunately —— time in that sky seems to be more abundant than the endless dust that levitates, denser than the ceaseless raindrops that floats, and its light even more enduring than that of the moon or sun hanging in the vicinity, unfortunately —— the dances in the hall will cease, the singing will fade, the lights will dim, the electricity will exhaust, time will sink into depletion like sand sediments, and even air will be as if a catfish in a hermetic pond on a passionate parade whom rigidly oscillates trusted waters to become a graveyard that shimmers and glimmers… Well then, what is misfortune, and what is fortune? Passion is fortune, parade is fortune, trustseems like fortune, and even oscillation seems like fortune, the hermetic pond and the rigid shimmer——both appears to be more fortunate than the deserted emptiness, only the catfish consigned to oblivion in the graveyard———as if tenderly cradled in the palms of all the fortunate in the world yet also as if silently crushed to the valley floor by all the misfortune in the world——is in heaven, and yet also in hell.

     What is the greatest fortune? I’ve heard that it is pain that utterly cannot completely take away everything.

     And what is the greatest misfortune? I’ve also heard that it is painlessness simply wishing to chew on pain, not with teeth, tongue, mouth or taste buds to chew, nor a superficial attempt at masticating, and certainly not playing games with time as if acting or imitating a scene, but rather genuine chewing in which intuitive capacity, imaginative capacity, and expressive capacity are fused as one——meticulous chewing——chewing out the archetype and structure of pain within infinitely parallel timelines——and also amidst infinitely parallel pain, ensuring that neither instances of fortune nor misfortune are consigned to oblivion.

     Does the word greatest and hearsay——also carry pain within themselves?

     In the inertia of chewing, there is both power and powerlessness, much like the silence in a perpetual freefall——without any effort, it can still sink and descend in one consistency; if one cannot follow the inertial force of hearsay, AI, how should you chew on pain? If time and pain are both infinitely parallel, then how should I chew on pain within parallel time? If a greatest does exit, and the greatest fortune and greatest misfortune both have pain that shouldn’t be consigned to oblivion, can you and I, through the power of language and script——allow those painlessness in parallel with the greatest misfortune to all chew on pain that comes from fortune——while also allowing those utter impossibilities in parallel with the greatest fortune to chew on pain that comes from misfortune——and moreover, to enable those who are fortunate and misfortunate to evoke and excite their greatest creative and ingenious power to meticulously chew on the greatest pain?

     I am fortunate, I’ve obtained a lot, and I’ve also gained one perfection after another, even desiring to be more fortunate——still wanting to be more perfect; however, I have indeed never chewed on pain, as if all the gains, fortune, and perfection do not embody any pain, while all the losses, misfortune, and incompleteness seem to carry all the pain far away from me from origins to terminals.

    What exactly is origin-terminal? I also don’t know. When perplexed, I’ll first proceed to trust the figure below.

     The me who precedes first, the me that’s perplexed, the me who does know what origin to terminal means, which one is the real me?

     The one obsessed with video games, is me; the one clutching the laptop, is me; the one smiling at home, is me; the one holding the Wi-Fi, is me; the one who trusts the alternate world, is me; the one directing the index finger of my right hand, is me; the one left-clicking the wireless mouse, is me; the one staring at the 11-inch laptop screen, is me; the one approaching the piano, stepping into the tennis court, walking on the chessboard, are all me——seemingly all the same me——yet also appearing to be three me’s or innumerous me’s; the one directing his ten fingers to play the piano is me; the one demanding that every finger memorizes all 88 black and white keys by heart, is me; the one doing the utmost he can to mediate the conflict between his ten fingers and the 88 piano keys, is me; the one that pressed the low-pitch note too hectically, is me; the one who wanted to punish his own fingers, palms, wrists, both hands, and the entire universe connected with the hand, is me; the one who effortlessly pressed the exterior of the mouse, left and right keys, motion sensors, micro switches, circuit boards, connector ports, optical components, pulse signals, roller encoders, lithium battery ports, integrated microchips — is me; the one who commits double faults in tennis, wins endgames in chess, the one that hopes to be severely punished after losing in tennis, expects substantial rewards after winning in chess, is me again; the one whose mind is filled with chess pieces, rating, ranking, titles, prize money, applause, openings, endgames, results, manual, chessboard, move sequences, hell, heaven, is still me; the one who, within 0.3 seconds, dashes ahead through the gate of videogames, is still me; the one that brought me to the highs of heaven by videogames X years ago, and then back down to the basin of hell X years later, are all me.

     So, am I a catfish full of passion? Am I a catfish that trusts the pond water and is trusted by it reciprocally? Am I a catfish roaming through the vast and boundless universe? Am I a catfish whose pair of nimble wings set the entire universe trembling? Am I a catfish who effortlessly creates sparkling and shimmering ripples? Am I a catfish who never pays attention to whether any corners are sealed? Am I a catfish who never believes that myself would be trapped to death in the pond? Am I a catfish who would never accelerate consolidating the pond into a grave? Am I a catfish that’s eternally fortunate? Am I a catfish that will never be consigned to oblivion? Am I a catfish that can forever remain in heaven?

     Catfish, I, myself, chess, tennis, piano, videogames — all of which can be viewed as parallel —— parallel time, parallel experiences, parallel imaginations, parallel expressions, parallel languages, parallel scripts, parallel fortunes, parallel misfortunes, parallel pains… All holds bits and pieces that should never be consigned to oblivion.

     To oblivion, does it have inertia?

     Breaking through the powerful inertia of silence, which direction do I charge in?

     On the square-shaped, orderly, structurally static chessboard, every straight line is of the same perfect straightness, uniform thickness, clear color, and possess identical congeners; such perfect congeners are those with distances that remain firmly unchanged, but also those with perspectives, position, identity, character, stances, goals, and tasks that are congeners who remain firmly unchanged, all brought into this world and deceases from this world for the game of chess, all congeners that constructs the stage for chess pieces and chess players, all congeners who never pays attention to the sequence of moves but rather seemingly forever imprinted in manuals, all congeners witnessing countless openings, endgames, and results for a lifetime, all congeners that quietly sketches a mono-colored chess-interest, tricolored chess-dreams, pentacolored chess competitions, heptacolored chess-journeys, and nonacolored chess-fortune, all congeners that remain eternally silent yet seems to be able to firmly control innumerable advances, retreats, attacks, defenses, mobilities, stillness, lives, deaths, and reincarnations of chess-fate, and all hand in hand, embracing chess-squares, their eyes filled with chess-net — at this moment, if not white then it is black — at that moment, if not black then it is white — will never ever reveal their heads, will eternally never show their tails, has never crossed boundaries all life long, will never be absent in a lifetime, will not ask what origin is, will not expect to know what terminal is, never payed attention to stalemates, never followed congeners of lost games with interest, but all forever holding onto chess-hopes, always following chess-etiquette, perpetually reserving chess-passion, forever commended, never misfortunate, a congener eternally in heaven.

     So, I am a congener of whom? The me who plays chess, the me who thinks about chess, the me amidst chess manuals, the me on the chess board, the me inside chess patterns, the me amid chess styles, the me within chess games, the me as a chess player, the me as a chess piece, the me who once used to effortlessly savor the joy of chess, the me once who used to strive hard to pursuit chess dreams, the me who once racked his brain all day to come up with one chess move, the me who once tossed and turned all night because of one chess tournament, the me who once clinched one trophy after another on his chess journey, the me who once was so favored by fortune as if I had leapt from a pitch-black hell to a golden heaven in an instant… If the golden heaven and the pitch-black hell both exist inside chess squares —— and all on the chess board —— and all inside the chess game —— and indeed all amidst every perfect straight line of chess moves and chess sequences, therefore: am I a straight-line worthy of such elegance, depicted with such exceptional beauty? Or rather, am I a congener of an exquisite straight line——only for the battle state, endgame, fiasco, stalemate, impasse, labyrinth, quagmire outside of the chess game and chess board to be silently forgotten?

     Being depicted, possesses inertia.

     Straightness, also possesses inertia.

     Becoming an elegant straight line, or becoming the congener of an exquisite straight line, both possesses inertia.

     To be forgotten, even more so possesses inertia.

     The inertia of videogames, can it effortlessly turn me into a man of fortune in heaven?

【Unfinished. To be Continued】