2nd Blog of the Evening.

I'm currently reading "Red Dust".
It is written in a similar style to my two favourite dystopian novels: "1984", and "We".
It is, in itself, also a dystopian novel. The difference is that it is not fiction.

A Chinese man named Ma Jian is under constant surveillance in Beijing by police for having been feared as a bourgeouis-type; a spiritual pollutant.
This is during "The Campain Against Spiritual Pollution" which happened during 1980's China.
Beginning to lose his mind, depressed, and unsure of who he is, he forges some documents and secretly embarks on a journey throughout China, hoping to discovery his country and himself.
He is a painter and a poet, and his records are so beautifully written that by the thirtieth page, I found myself in tears on the long bus-ride to Kanoya from a single paragraph noting his love for someone whom he now fears for having done so and been betrayed.
He explains a twitch he sees on her lip.

The twitch on her lip brought me to tears on a bus.

I am realizing the poor quality of my writing.

I am realizing that independence can make you a coward just as easily as it can make you a hero.

I am realizing what I was sure I knew before.