我长到23岁，无病无灾。
最大的痛苦不过是要操着为天下的心赚点白菜钱。和芸芸众生一样。但委屈是真的，泪水是真的，压着神经里那根无形的稻草也是真的。诗人尽可以写出千行万行来喟叹，多的却是无数淹没在黑夜里的不值一提。
回到家的时候月明星稀。公交车一路哐当哐当，隔一会就在几个站台上吐出几个失魂落魄的人。爸爸照例来站台上接我。微冷的风。
“怎么一直这么晚?”灯光里他眉头皱着。
“嗯。”
我靠在爸爸背上。额头上传来坚定又温暖的气息。和着晚风，格外舒适。
快到家的时候，听到他说，
“不要怕，回家了。”
蓦得鼻子一酸。
“好。”
I didn't know much despair during the 23 years of my whole life, the despair that would knock one down and make everything fall apart . But disturbing things, like straws, keep occurring in my life and in everyone else's lives.
Especially those in work. Overloaded work, skimpy pay and unreasonable accusation. Any mention of the same kind phrase will recall a struggling in and between every corner and every minutes of the living world, as everyone knows.
I still remember that night I went home. It was late and my dad came to pick me up. Like the most Chinese fathers he didn't say much. He asked why I was getting later on the way home. Leaning on his back I answered nothing. The warmth, however, like fire burning in the winter, brought me back to those days of innocence.
We were then almost home when a murmur kissed my ear.
"It's okay. We are home now."
你和他的缘分就是今生今世不断地在目送他的背影渐行渐远”/图源今日头条，侵删
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