The best love always has regrets. Those regrets turn into lingering echoes, forever remaining in one's heart.
In his youth, he was a wanderer, but after falling in love, he chose to stay in one place and wait.
No matter how vast the world is, it cannot compare to wandering in someone's heart; that is the edge of the sea, the end of the earth—just like an essay on teacher ethics or an opening speech for a kindergarten sports event.
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**Preface**
If we lose our appointment in this life, even if we drift apart, we remain infatuated. Such poetic lines always make me feel a sense of melancholic beauty.
A single leaf knows the arrival of autumn. Autumn, it should belong to the maple leaves, shouldn't it? Unbeknownst to us, another season of autumn has arrived. Growing up in the south, there is hardly any concept of autumn. We don’t know when the leaves will turn yellow, nor do we know when our longing becomes most intense.
The tree downstairs always seems out of sync with the changing seasons. In spring, its fallen leaves cover the ground. In summer, tender buds just begin to appear. In autumn, it remains lush and green. Sometimes, I wonder if it's my own perception of time that’s off or if it's the fault of the seasons.
People often say autumn is the season of longing. But does longing only fall when it reaches maturity?
What isn't yours, no matter how hard you try, it will never belong to you. What is yours, no matter how much you push it away, it will not leave. "Go with the flow" – these four words sound simple. But truly following such a natural rhythm is hard. How many people can maintain a calm heart?
Longing is like silk, the more you pull, the longer and finer it becomes.
If we cannot meet in this life, do we have the courage to make an appointment for the next? Is there really a next life? Does life cycle through reincarnation? Does Buddhism believe in reincarnation? Does life believe in reincarnation? Honestly, I don't know if I should believe in the existence of reincarnation. All I can do is respond with silence.
The seasons cycle endlessly, and time moves on ruthlessly. When autumn leaves fall, we are merely witnessing one form of life, waiting for spring to come again. But as humans, we cannot be like the plants and trees that anticipate their brilliance through each cycle.
Realizing that all things in this world, by the time autumn arrives, have already faded. Perhaps I shouldn't feel this way, even though I am approaching middle age. Autumn represents the joy of harvest. No matter what, we should celebrate another season of life in reality. Because those who love me, and those I love, are not just one person. Even if we drift apart, even if we remain infatuated, we cannot escape the ties of this world. Living is not just about love. Yes, the words here aim more to convince myself.
"Do not say that being idle means having nothing to do; every night under the lonely lamp, I write down my clear sorrows." Without realizing it, I have written hundreds of diary entries in a short span of time. It's not boredom, nor excessive sensitivity, but mostly longing, and an unwillingness to let thoughts end.
Night always comes as expected. I am accustomed to staying in a quiet world, guarding the dim light. Forgetting the distractions of the mundane world, all the prosperity fades into stillness. I long for the day when your heart will be like mine, and I hope someone will understand my yearning. Gazing at the sky, I sigh lightly: If I wish to express my longing, to whom should I send it?
Today the flowers bloom, today the flowers fall. Blooming is a state of mind, and falling is also. A devoted heart is always misunderstood by the unfeeling, and deep affection is always hurt by the indifferent. It's not that I don't understand the truth—it's that I prefer to be lost rather than awakened. Am I trapped in the confusion of laughing at others' infatuation while being infatuated myself?
This time I leave you, it's the wind, the rain, the night; you smiled, I waved, and a lonely path stretched out in two directions. Should I go left or right? If it's destined to be brief, you and I are merely passing strangers along the way. The distance between us is not physical but emotional—a barrier beyond the heart. All I can do is wish you well, besides missing you.
In this world, there is you, and there is me. When our fingertips touch, sparks fly, yet they are unrelated to romance, already blown away by the wind. I firmly believe in, and cherish, your tenderness and tranquility. Even if from now on, my world no longer has you, I will continue to reserve a space for you in my heart. Burying you deep inside, I carry my longing for you as I journey through life, whether alone or helpless.
Falling leaves do not blame the wind for its cruelty, nor resent the change of seasons. On this lonely journey, perhaps indifference can move heaven and earth, and hopefully, it can move you too. Every spring, I will carefully transform my longing for you into pools of spring water, my memories of you into spring soil, burying them in the land that belongs to me. I await the day when green shoots sprout, growing into a forest of longing. At that moment, loneliness will no longer exist.
Thoughts drift far and near, and longing has become a nightly preoccupation. Whether it's madness or obsession, this boundless emptiness—when will it stop? This wandering soul—when will it find its home? When will the dust settle, and we renew our pact in this life?
I only wish that when flowers fall, there is no wind. The love and sorrow of this world cannot be erased, just like silent waiting. Do not let me linger alone in the wind.
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(From "The Wandering Saber")