The title comes from qwt. Expressing some love for cats is also a summary of some things.
I really like cats.
Wherever I see a cat, I instinctively slow down my pace, observe it for a while, and then raise my camera.
Some cats are very cooperative.
They will lie on the steps basking in the sun, squinting their eyes into a line, and their tails sweeping the ground intermittently. When I heard the shutter sound, I just looked up at me, as if I was too lazy to investigate.
Some cats are not very cooperative.
As soon as I squatted down, it turned around and crawled under the car, leaving only half of its tail behind. Or it may have already walked far away, but suddenly stopped at the intersection and looked back at me with a lingering nostalgia. I raised the camera and it left again.
There is often an orange cat on the first floor of my building.
It is very thin and relies entirely on cat lovers for feeding. It always likes to lie on the table bought by the neighborhood committee, with its belly pressed against the tabletop and several delivery boxes placed next to it. When the weather is cold, it shrinks itself into a ball, and when the weather is hot, it spreads out very wide, like an orange blanket casually placed on the ground.
I have filmed it many times.
Sometimes just passing by, taking a picture and leaving. Sometimes I intentionally lock my bike and pretend to just pass by it.
Actually, I just want to watch it for a while longer.
I keep these photos on my phone, and occasionally when I flip through them, I feel very quiet in my heart.
Someone once asked me:
Cats are very cute, why don't you keep a cat
Of course I know cats are cute. Knowing that when they sleep, they always obediently tuck their paws under their bodies and curl up into a quiet and soft ball; Knowing that when they stretch lazily, their backs will bend into a beautiful curve, and even their tails will stretch out along with it; I also know that the serious and satisfied appearance of cats can easily make people feel soft at once.
However, I also know that owning a cat is not just about touching it a few times a day and taking a few photos.
It will suddenly parkour at 3am and knock things on the table to the ground. It will scratch a bunch of scratches on your newly renovated house. I will sit at the door watching you as you prepare to leave, as if you are about to abandon it and do something very irresponsible.
It will get sick, shed its fur, sand cats to every corner of the room, and have the joy, anger, sorrow, and happiness of living beings. When you travel, you need to consider who will take care of it; When moving, consider whether it can adapt; One day when it gets old, you will have to watch it gradually lose its agility, and finally sadly watch it leave you.
I like cats lying in the sunshine, but I'm not sure if I can scoop up cat litter every day. I like them quietly looking at the camera in the photo, but I'm not sure if I can accept them tipping over the water cup when it's not appropriate.
I like cats, but I may not have liked a specific cat for as long or as stable.
The cat in the photo and the cat at home that waits for you to come home every day are not the same cat.
The cat in the photo doesn't need me to do anything.
I can approach it when it's cute, leave it when it's bored, and put away the camera when it gets under the car. It only appears when I am willing to see it, with sunshine, fur, and a little freedom that doesn't belong to me.
And truly owning a cat means it will also appear in those moments when I don't want to see it. I can appreciate its goodness and also catch its troubles.
What I love is the concept of cats, the softness that suddenly appears on street corners, and an animal finding its own life in the city. This kind of liking is very light, so light that there is no need to be responsible for anything.
I can always love it, free and unrestrained.
Because it won't ask for anything from me.
Later on, I discovered that there seemed to be similar differences between people.
We often say that we like a certain type of person.
I like kind people, interesting people, smart people, and sincere people. We will share stories about strangers online because they are brave, upright, or have shown moving qualities at some point. Even later on, people began to categorize people using a few tags and generously express their preferences.
We say we like humans, like sentient beings, and like those who are far away and have never met before.
There's nothing wrong with this kind of liking.
I am also moved by the kindness of strangers. Seeing someone holding an umbrella for a stray cat in the rain, one feels that the world is not so bad as to be irreparable. Seeing a stranger helping an elderly person carry luggage, one may feel that there are still things between people that do not require explanation.
However, abstractly loving someone is often easier than loving a concrete person.
Because abstract people have no bad temper, no silence, and no fickleness. They won't play with your phone while you're talking, they won't casually put things you've prepared, and they won't continue to ask for them when you're already tired.
Abstract people always stay in the most easily loved form.
They are kind, open, and worthy of understanding and forgiveness.
And now, we even have more abstract choices.
AI can adjust according to your preferences: if you find it cold, just raise the temperature; If you find it verbose, make it concise; If you feel it's not gentle enough, add a line of 'please be gentle' to the prompt. It is always online, always responsive, and always changing in the direction you like.
This kind of liking is almost perfect.
Perfect enough that you only need to adjust the parameters, not yourself.
But specific people are not like that.
He will make two mistakes in the same thing, remember an unintentional sentence for a long time, and not appear in time when you need him the most. He may have many habits that are unbearable for you, or he may not understand you as well as you imagine.
To love an abstract person, all you need to do is acknowledge their strengths.
You love a specific person, but you have to be with their flaws.
I used to think that liking someone meant seeing the shining points on them. Later on, it was discovered that the truly difficult part happened precisely after the flash point disappeared.
The other party is no longer interesting, gentle, or responsive to you in a timely manner. You have had arguments, misunderstandings, and moments that cannot be explained by one sentence: 'He is actually a very good person.'.
At this point, what you are facing is no longer a concept.
He is a specific person.
He has his own exhaustion, fear, sluggishness, and selfishness. He doesn't exist just to be liked by you, nor will he always maintain the way you like him the most.
Of course you can leave.
Loving specific people does not mean infinite patience, nor does it mean finding excuses for all the mistakes of the other person. Someone hurts you, someone consumes you, and someone is not worth getting closer to. Leaving these people is not unkind enough.
Just when you decide to stay, you can't just leave a beautiful photo.
You need to accept the parts outside of the photo.
Accept that the cat will knock things down in the middle of the night, accept that it will get sick, accept that it will not always be obedient, and accept that sometimes it can be troublesome to take care of it.
Accepting someone is not always gentle, not always interesting, and not always able to say the right things when you need them.
Loving specific people is not treating them as my own cat, nor is it asking them to be grateful by saying 'I have accepted you'. It is more like a clear choice: to still be willing to approach after seeing trouble, or to honestly leave.
This is not romantic.
Even a little specific enough to make people retreat.
So I never had a cat.
I like to take pictures of them on the roadside, watch them sleep in cardboard boxes, and guess where they go every day and who they live with. But I didn't bring any of them home.
This may indicate that my liking is still in a relatively safe position.
I am willing to approach, but unwilling to take responsibility; Willing to record, but unwilling to endure life beyond the record.
I don't know if this counts as a true liking.
Sometimes I feel ashamed about it. On second thought, at least I didn't bring a cat into the house out of impulse and throw it back onto the street after the enthusiasm subsided.
Knowing that one cannot bear it is also a kind of ugly honesty.
I met that orange cat again at the entrance of the community yesterday.
It is lying under an electric car, with only its head exposed. I squatted down to take a photo of it, and it glanced at me without hiding, just putting its chin back on the ground.
I took two photos.
After filming, I stood up, took a few steps forward, and then turned back to look at it.
It's still there. Not disappointed because I left, nor happy because I came back. It just lives its own life, basking in the sun, sleeping, waiting for the next meal from somewhere unknown.
I suddenly feel that this is also good.
Not all likes must become possessions, not all loves must bring the other person home.
But if one day, I really have a cat, I hope that by then, what I like is not just its cute appearance.
I also like the way it messes up the room, gets sick, gets old, and looks that are not suitable for being photographed.
People are the same.
We can certainly love abstract people, love a certain personality, love a certain quality, love a distant and clear ideal. Just when a concrete person stands in front of us, they often no longer resemble the ideal itself.
He will disappoint you and also make you angry.
He will make life troublesome.
Being cute is never because the other person is always cute, but because even after seeing those unlovable parts, you are still willing to think carefully:
Do I still want to stay.
As for cats, I won't keep them for the time being.
But I know that liking a cat and taking care of a cat are two different things.
Like an abstract person, and love a concrete person, too.