When my father was in my current age, even younger, occasionally, a cup of white liquor in hand, a bit intoxicated, he kept telling us to remember to throw his ashes in the only local river, Fuxi River, after his 'death' ... He was very healthy, still in his prime years, but the sense of incurable pessimism was deeply ingrained in him; the shadow of disappointment in life never parted with him... If death was so important to him, what about life?... Life to him was too heavy; on the contrary, death seemed a light liberation from this bleak world... Even day-dreaming it was reassuring...
All his latter half life he spent on dreaming things he had lost... The real life?... He was lost in it, day after day...
悲观人生 Pessimism
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