The book I've been reading recently has four lines of vertically arranged text at the top of its cover, in a subtle dark red font: "When you take this step, you may no longer be yourself, but another person truly ready for adventure and challenges." It's a narrative about exile, banishment, and self-inflicted journeys, followed by redemption of body and mind. Lately, my thoughts have been too easily influenced by seasonal changes and weather shifts. Avoiding conversations with colleagues, I sigh silently, unable to stop the chilling winds and rain outside, nor can I hold onto cherished feelings from the past. Within sight lies an unknown journey with a predestined outcome of blooming spring. Someone asked me: during the days of waiting, would I suddenly regret my rashness, my unshed childishness? Choked for words momentarily, I then clarified that I would not regret, my aspirations for the future firm or stubborn, as brave and resolute as before, often making myself feel unfamiliar. Yet, I didn't reveal another emotion, resistance and struggle still lingered, often panicking at the unknown.
Sometimes, I know myself too deeply, whether the road ahead is bright or gloomy, it's all just a series of transitions and experiences. At this age, I can no longer afford petty emotions, and due to the accumulation of some experiences, I can understand the end of a story clearly. However, some things are always difficult, like encounters, partings, and forgetting.
These few days, I've immersed myself in the stifling heat of the air with a hollow center, forcing cheerful smiles to greet others, pretending to be carefree as before. Despite the icy weather of rain mixed with snow outside the window and the busy work processes indoors, I persuade myself to ignore the cumulative temptations and poisons of bad weather and mood, pretending to be a diligent and dedicated employee.
I've also temporarily abandoned my treasured words, without updates for several days, and no longer leaving small segments of fleeting messages. Recently, I've written too much about doubts and sorrowful emotions, the excessive expression exhausting my strength temporarily; and during the writing process, I received too many extremely sad implications. The result of being too deeply immersed in the script is often feeling out of breath. Acknowledging my own foolishness, I meticulously ponder and write about some objects, a period of time, and fragments of a person, entrusting my heart's affairs within them. Afterward, however, I lost all happiness and peace.
I haven't learned to be indifferent and elegant, wise and undisturbed, asking a friend, "Will there come a day when sweet couples have nothing more to say?" In fact, reflecting inwardly, will there come a day when I am at opposite ends with many people, strangers to each other?
Someone gives a truthful answer, "It might. If one day, the overwhelming emotions hinder smooth, free expression, and every word must pass through a careful filter of thought, then it becomes boring."
Another assumption is presented: if one day I suddenly lose the ability to express through language, or if all previous knowledge is erased, leaving only a vast white emptiness in my mind, then I would only be able to echo others' words and nod in agreement. Without the freedom to express, all beauty disappears from that point on.
Certain intimate people not being around doesn't make me feel lonely, because I often smell the familiar scent lingering in the skin texture. What I enjoy, love, think, miss, and cherish is so narrow. In the metaphysical realm, I've always been a dull, simple, and easily satisfied person, finding joy and fulfillment in the limited space carved out by words.
And then, beyond words, I merely worry about survival. Fortunately, most of the time, I can still compromise, strive forward, relying on material goods and valuing friendships, like most conformist men and women, while also maintaining appropriate beautiful desires and expectations. Life is often a fixed routine, without surprise, without danger, without sadness, and without joy.