On an early spring night, the wind outside the window still carried a hint of coldness. I've grown accustomed to sitting quietly alone under the vast night sky, accustomed to letting the songs of the night accompany me quietly, and accustomed to typing chaotic words at such moments. All along, in different seasons, I've had the same recurring dream. In my dreams, I hold your hand and travel across the ends of the earth. I lean on you tenderly like a little bird as we watch flowers bloom and wither, over and over again. And just like this, we grow old quietly together in the passage of time...
Sometimes, I think this moment lasts too long; other times, I feel it's too short. When it feels long, so many past events fade with time, and I can no longer recall their original appearances. When it feels short, it's as if things haven't even begun before what I wanted to hold onto vanishes without a trace in the changing tides of time. No matter how long the years may be, they cannot surpass the longing in my heart; no matter how short the time, it cannot match the sorrow of loneliness.
In the hustle and bustle of the world, I always want to be a carefree and calm person, letting go of what should be let go, cherishing those who know how to cherish, and being a happy self.
Looking back suddenly, all those bygone days have become moments hidden in falling flowers, blooming quietly, then wilting quietly. And no one will ever know how a woman's melancholy once bloomed and faded. I smile faintly, content with being a woman. After all, those are just past memories; that pain no longer belongs to me. In such musings, I become a lonely woman, feeling a faint melancholy.
Now, I am still a quiet woman walking in the world of words. Those words are like little spirits, tempting me to pick up my pen, settle down, and write them down gently and faintly. I remain a tranquil woman, quietly walking through the flow of time, just as now, when I listen to music quietly and type these words casually, enjoying these moments.
Nowadays, I rarely revisit my old writings, and I don't even remember the deeply painful words I wrote during those lonely moments. Perhaps, when one has truly experienced pain, they no longer fear it. They can cry while smiling and face sadness with equanimity. Friends say that every time they see me, I'm smiling, and there's no trace of sorrow on my face. Yet, my writings are full of sorrow. I laugh, for those who see my pain are few, but those who see my smile are many. So, I tell my friends that the ones who truly see my pain must have entered my heart; they must understand the sorrow within my bones. But I don't wish for anyone to see through me or see my pain. Once, I saw a man's bleeding wound, and I could only watch helplessly, unable to heal his wounds. He could no longer bear exposing his wounds to me and silently fled. Perhaps, I would flee like that too. Therefore, I hope everyone sees me as a pear blossom with a smile, full of happiness and confidence.
Now, I seldom write those sorrowful words, not wanting to trap myself where I can't breathe. Even when my mood is particularly bad, I try not to touch that string of sorrow, striving to make myself stronger, stronger... But now, as I listen to the song "Painting the Heart," I still cry. Painting you, I can't capture your essence; remembering your expression is my steadfast waiting for you. You are a song I can never finish singing. "Remembering your expression is my steadfast waiting for you." Whispering each word softly and secretly, how many people can read the bitterness of waiting? How many can hear the resolute persistence? How many can understand the preciousness of cherishing? How many can comprehend the pain of loneliness? Tears still flow freely in the music...
"Painting the Heart," how can one paint the heart of love?