Cicada's Summer GL | Chapter 82 | Every Shape of Love | Novela.app

It has taken over half a year, but I have finally finished *The Summer of Cicadas*. Tonight, a typhoon is passing through, and the wind and rain are heavy outside my window. Since a rainy night provides a perfect excuse for one to be unapologetically vulnerable, I might as well ramble a bit and write a so-called postscript. One day last year, while idling about, I came across a passage online: "I hope that eventually, people will look upon homosexuality and heterosexuality with the same lack of surprise, and view women who are successful in their careers with the same admiration as those with happy marriages. I hope people can maintain a respectful distance from the private lives of others, respecting every individual's decision to have children or not, to marry or stay single, and appreciating everyone who lives a wonderful life—whether they are single or out of the closet, a housewife or a doctoral candidate." So, I casually asked my mother, who was sitting beside me, "When I was little, what did you hope I would become when I grew up?" She thought for a moment and said, "An upright and kind person who is useful to society." I laughed then, thinking the answer was far too official. But I couldn't help asking her, "Then the me of today—have I met the expectations you had for me back then?" She nodded without a moment's hesitation. That night, I turned her words over in my mind again and again, reflecting on the bits and pieces of these past years. Moved by a mother's infinite tolerance and affirmation of her child, a novel idea took root, and I decided to write this story. I often hear people joke that they "no longer believe in love." Of course, most of that is just talk. If we cannot even believe in love, then there are precious few things left in this world that we can hold onto firmly and sacrifice for. In my short twenty-odd years, I have witnessed many instances of love that were vivid, fierce, and unshakable. Perhaps, as Feng Tang said, there is a swelling in my heart; I must write it out and let it dissolve to feel at peace. I also once promised someone that I would record the stories of our childhood for her to see. To that end, I told many fragmented, mundane bedtime stories, even jokingly calling them our own *One Thousand and One Nights*. But do you know, my companion? The stories I owe you, the words I want to say to you in the days to come—how could they ever be limited to those few naive and silly phrases? And so, in this story, I have attempted to record the most ordinary instances of kinship, friendship, and love in life. I have tried to show that love has many different shapes, and tried to persuade others to revere every shape of love just as they revere nature, every tree, and every drop of water. *The Summer of Cicadas* is a very simple story. Although I define myself as a storyteller, I cannot deny that it contains too much of my own subjective thought. I suppose this isn't something everyone can accept. Fortunately, the beauty of storytelling lies in the fact that it isn't a live documentary; you can let plots and words collide and run wild. Who is going to hold you accountable for the consequences? Thus, some of the things I wanted to say were spoken directly through the characters, some were hidden obscurely between the lines, and for much of it, I simply didn't know where to begin. To my shame, words are sometimes a powerless tool. One cannot be so delusional as to think they can use words to lick clean the distance between their life and another's. Furthermore, I am not someone particularly skilled with language, nor do I have much leisure time to ponder and measure the art of writing. I do not seek for my ink to be rich or my brush to be saturated; I only hope that my words serve as the voice of my heart. Fortunately, there are always many kind strangers who see through the foreshadowing and preparation to understand your thoughts and emotions. Whenever I see those vivid, interesting comments that hit the mark, I can't help but smile. Of course, there are also interesting private messages. A while ago, a reader told me that by watching someone write, you can see many things: her sincerity toward life, toward love, toward friends, and toward her readers. I’ve taken the "copyright" for that sentence; I want to specifically thank you here for making me believe that I am indeed sincere. As for things like "going VIP" or monetization, I neither care about nor understand them. Adhering to the principle that writing should rather be trivial than false, I have tepidly and slowly completed these three hundred thousand words. For myself, this process has been nothing less than a journey of introspection and transformation—learning to reserve a patch of peaceful, quiet sea for myself amidst a weary and busy life. Writing to this point, I think no further words are needed. The book is short but the sentiment is long; the story must eventually end, and life shall finally come to light. Finally, my thanks to the readers who followed and loved *Summer of Cicadas*. Thank you for ignoring the author's supposedly "Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio"-style pen name and sticking with the story until the end. My thanks also for your messages, comments, tolerance, and undue praise on Jinjiang and Weibo. Thank you! Goodbye! :) July 10, 2015 Bei Ming Zhi Guai