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It's hard to say when it all began, when I took my first
immature steps towards a future I wasn't even sure about. Only to realize
later on that the gap between my aspirations and reality was as impossible
to bridge as the difference between spring and winter. It was just out of
reach.
Looking back, the path behind me was a mess of eighteen summers and winters,
and I couldn't make sense of it all. I couldn't help but wonder, what kind
of footprints could create such a chaotic trail, with depths varying and
distances so far apart? But how could I answer that question myself?
Sitting at an old desk, looking out the window at a world that changes
almost every day, I couldn't help but think that in many years to come,
would anyone be willing to sit in the same place, unchanging? Like a
stagnant projector, recording the changes outside, while slowly
deteriorating myself. When others finally discovered me, I would have become
the end of an era, with the only advantage being that I witnessed the ups
and downs of that time.
The chilly winter wind blew through the broken window, lifting the deep red
curtains to reveal eight different diaries, old and new, with messy records
of my emotions from "naive" to "enlightened," from cheerful to indifferent,
from thinking the world was unfair to realizing its fairness, going through
experiences I had never encountered before. I grew into who I am today, in
eighteen years, a long time for me.
Time, like a gentle breeze, slips through our fingers, constantly moving
forward, whether the people around it keep pace or not. It won't stand still
for anyone. It's up to us to catch up, or not.
In the bustling square, a tall parasol tree stands in the center, the cold
winter wind blowing the few remaining leaves on its branches. The leafless
branches seem to want to reach up to the sky in every corner of the air of
this era, brewing a taste of "mourning". |
