The chaotic snowflakes fly, and sorrow fills the eyes. The fireworks, though beautiful, are lonely. Yet that charming evening has faded from whose memory? Amidst the swirling snow, the lonely wind splits, and the steed whinnies. Not for entanglement, but to trace back to the rainy painting that has long vanished with the wind. Tender feelings flow like water, along the riverbank I once crossed. The rain comes suddenly, and the sun tilts. I ask, in whose heart should my memories be sealed?
Silent ยท Xiaohao
In the cold winter snow, amidst the misty rain of Jiangnan, I turn around and look back at the post where I had lingered for so long, and thus bid a hasty farewell. The wind blows and tears fall, is it the wind's mischief, or is it my heart weeping? I don't know where I dreamt last night, only vaguely sensing that people will part, yet hearts remain attached? How can one help but feel the urgency to return, even if staying behind would be futile? This is merely a brief recounting, to commemorate the dream in my heart, the dream that never woke up...
Fireworks fall in Yangzhou, drunken wine in the spring of Jiangnan. The wind passes by, flowers fall on the shoulder, and the heart already perceives. Sitting by the river, breaking a branch of pear blossom, playing a tune of elegance. Writing about the vicissitudes of life, composing a song of deep love. Forgetting nightmares, just to forget, near yet not fallen behind, tears fall, why? Suddenly hearing an ancient song.
Bending down to ask the hanging willow, why loneliness? A tune of smoky sand passes through the chest, yet what can be done, only for the dreams of yesterday that have faded.
Finally stepping out alone from this land, the sky remains painfully blue. Those scattered clouds of yesterday naturally perform their daily routine activities. The same wind, the same water, yet carries away different emotions...
Dazedly opening both eyes, watching the lush poplar trees rapidly recede outside the car window; watching unfamiliar faces speaking in strange accents telling stories I cannot understand; watching the non-crowded train carriage filled with moving people; watching garbage thrown everywhere and the hateful girl sitting beside me constantly frowning.
Suddenly realizing I can only silently watch all this, like a golden oriole trapped in a cage, eyes helpless yet fond of looking around. Perhaps, I am truly only suitable to be such a golden oriole, then I wouldn't know what loneliness is, what solitude is, and what love is?
Vaguely remembering the painting I drew as a child, a frail boy standing before a hill full of flowers and beautiful scenery. The corner of the boy's mouth slightly rises, yet his black pupils are filled with pain and helplessness, even a touch of despair mixed within. Because in front of him, there is a rusted iron fence, and this fence itself is an iron cage, brutally separating him from this stunning landscape.
The child stretches out his hands, trying to catch something with those small hands through the gaps of the fence, but what he catches is always that bone-chilling air and endless sorrow. Thus, he can only stretch his hands, grabbing at nothing in the empty air, and this grabbing lasts a lifetime...
I do not know why I painted such a desolate picture back then. Perhaps at that time, I already knew that I am the child in the painting. No matter how hard I try to pursue, despite the seemingly beautiful scenery in front of me, I clearly know that there is always an invisible fence blocking my path to happiness...
This is akin to a curse, a curse I personally placed upon my neck.
I have been trying to break this curse, to jump out of this cage that restrains me. So I wander alone around the world, watching flowers, water, sky, clouds. In short, everything related to freedom I want to experience.
I originally thought I had found freedom; I originally thought I had escaped loneliness; I originally thought I had broken this cursed spell, and I had caught something other than air......
And when that thread of melancholy pierced through my palm into my heart, I was terrified to realize that I had been playing a repetitive and self-deceptive trick all along. Originally, I was still that helpless boy locked in a cage.
Finally, I slowly realized that what I tightly held in my hand was no longer air, but something more terrifying than air. That thing's name, people call it memories.
When memories began to cycle, I was still sitting on that train heading towards the distance, the roaring sound continuously echoing in my ears. Perhaps, I shouldn't be so dispirited and sad. Maybe, the road waiting for me ahead will be endlessly long. So long that even if I use up my entire life, I may never reach the end of this road.
At this moment, the scenery remains enchanting...
Suddenly, a large drop of water passes through the corner of my eye and flows down my cheek, and I finally realize that I have been dreaming an old dream, fresh in appearance yet weathered in essence. Feeling the moist trail gradually moistening, I have ended my reverie. Yes, everyone should have their own dream, right? Even if it is an unreachable hope; even if we ourselves are just children locked in an iron cage. We still have the right to pursue our dreams, and the child in the cage can also stretch out his innocent hands, to touch the world he cannot reach...
The sky grows dark. Looking at the pitch-black world outside the window, my heart sinks into emptiness. Originally, from beginning to end, we have been running forward, regardless of time, without asking for the starting point. We only care about whether there is something we desire at the end of this road. Perhaps it is a person, perhaps an object, or perhaps a relationship after the mist clears...
I must continue along this winding road, although the current scenery remains touching, although I do not know if I have the ability to reach the end. Yet I will strive, giving my utmost effort to run. Because I know, at the end of this road waiting for me, there are fields of blooming deadly nightshade and a pair of clear, watery eyes...
(Responsible Editor: Crescent Moon)