Traditional Culture Encyclopedia - Photography major - What do roland barthes's lovers talk about?
What do roland barthes's lovers talk about?
Missing a distant lover is one-way, which is fundamentally that lovers and lovers can't replace each other. In other words, I love each other more than they love me. Lovers always dig their own situation storage and inner monologues involuntarily out of their own imagination.
The way to endure separation is to forget. So all that remains is a sigh.
If one day you have to make up your mind to give up the other half, what makes you feel particularly uncomfortable is the loss of imagination, not anything else. What a precious building it used to be. You are sad to lose love, not him or her.
So the other person is written off by love, and you also benefit from this writing off. If the other person is blurred, it will naturally not hurt you again. Of course, if you think deeply, you will feel guilty and suffer again when you see the other person being belittled and pushed out of love. Love is tormenting, it keeps fluctuating in your inner chatter, and people can't escape this hesitation. So you asked for it. You can only heal yourself, others can't help you. Or you can wait.
Waiting is actually an incredible thing, waiting for an arrival, a return, a promise signal. At the same time, waiting also pushes itself to a more favorable position. You can reanalyze or even deconstruct your love. It has a stage scene that you arranged. However, lovers in a daze often have no emotional logic. She said to him, "As long as you are willing to wait for me on the stool under my window for a hundred nights, I belong to you." On the ninety-ninth night, he stood up, picked up a stool and left.
There is a game in which a group of children surround several chairs, and the number of chairs is always one less than the number of children. When the music started, the children began to turn around. When the music stopped, they grabbed a chair intently. The last unlucky person standing is the most dull and boring redundant person: the lover.
Goethe said in Young Werther: "We are our own demons, and we drive ourselves out of our paradise."
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