In the early morning, I roll up the curtain to see light frost, and try to apply plum blossom makeup by breathing on my hands. All because of the inherent parting sorrow, the eyebrows are drawn to resemble distant mountains. Thinking about the past, I cherish the fleeting beauty. It's easy to be hurt. Before singing, I gather my composure; wanting to smile but frowning instead, breaking one's heart most profoundly. Leaning by the window facing the painted brows, with no one around, why bother painting eyebrows for anyone...
I am always used to being alone, able to think about anything, yet unable to think about nothing. I am mine, everything outside is like a mirage or flowers in water, eventually becoming empty. Striving to weave a poetic life, there's always so much melancholy and sentimentality, unknowingly clinging to the old, unable to bear parting. For a long time, I've been wrapping myself up, even unwilling to break free from the cocoon to experience wind and rain, thus getting used to covering inner loneliness with outward silence. "Pity the solitary grass growing by the stream, above it the oriole sings deep in the tree. The spring tide brings urgent evening rain, at the deserted ferry the boat drifts horizontally," perhaps this is the best interpretation. A fire destined to be entangled with water, maybe in a previous life I was made of water. That's why I love rainy and snowy days, walking leisurely with an oiled paper umbrella, loving that artistic atmosphere, as if entering Dai Wangshu's Rain Alley. Maybe due to reading poetry meticulously, I unconsciously fall into the state of lamenting over the times and mourning spring. Perhaps this is another excuse for me to escape.
I try hard to rush out, using apparent cynicism to cover the real me inside. At this moment, it seems like I can care about nothing, some seemingly humorous and witty words flow out of my mouth effortlessly, the attitude of playing with life increasingly overshadowing the original me. "Life is short, seek pleasure in time," I indulge in it, unwilling to stop, more unwilling to wake up. I'm afraid, afraid of locking myself up again. Only now do I realize, I have only moved from消极出世 (negative detachment) to deeper negative decadence, not breaking out, but falling into a quagmire. My heart is covered by too many material desires, ultimately losing the true self, seemingly engaging in worldly affairs, but in the end, it's all empty. "Passion has always left regrets, good dreams are always the easiest to wake," I will go back then. What was supposed to be moving from the self to the super self was wrong, I couldn't achieve it, instead losing the self. I don't recognize who I am now. But even so, I don't know how returning would change anything, so let everything follow its natural course.
It's been a long time since I organized my own life, now it seems to have become a mess. Upon reflection, why bother trying desperately to save the twilight? Let's turn around and welcome the rising sun in the east! Gazing at the road leading home through green hills, it turns out to be an endless path. You, me, each seeking our own way, moving forward to find the path of humanity. Both Buddhism and Taoism advocate: with the sentiments of detachment, pursue the career of engagement in the world. When isn't life about cultivation? Self-redemption...