I despised my soul seven times:
For the first time, when it could have made progress, it pretended to be humble;
The second time, when it is empty, it is full of love;
The third time, between difficulty and easy, it chose easy;
The fourth time, it made a mistake, but comforted itself with others' mistakes;
The fifth time, it is freedom and weakness, but it is regarded as the tenacity of life;
The sixth time, when it despised an ugly face, it didn't know it was one of its masks;
The seventh time, it leans in the mud of life, though unwilling, but timid.