Outside the window, the wind swept gently past the long, narrow leaves, leaving behind a faint, light scent. The gray sky was heavy with a somber atmosphere. The scenery outside the window remained motionless, fixed in an unchanging pose before my eyes. My dazed thoughts abruptly lingered in this hazy space, painted in shades of gray and white.
The view outside the window is no longer the scene I once cherished in my heart. I've already warned myself, but whenever I suddenly remember, I still raise my head to gaze at it, followed only by my soft sighs. Why has the sky and the earth also rusted like me? Only a single wisp of wind dances gracefully on the distant treetops.
I don’t know how long I’ve been guarding by the window. So long that the anxious heart has already weathered away by the side of the window, aging inwardly. When the sun shines brightly, when the drizzle falls softly, when the breeze kisses lightly, I am the string of wind bells hanging by the window. Lazily ringing in a state of half-sleep, I no longer possess the sharpness I once had.
In March, the east wind blows softly, and there's fragrance outside the window. Perhaps amidst the sweet scent lies a bright freshness. Alas, I still hang here old and gray like in winter.
Accompanied by a thunderous roar, the energy of the Start of Insects (Jingzhe) surges forth, abundant rain cascades down as if splitting the heavens. Fresh green sways gently in the soft wind outside the window, and overnight, the world changes color. The fresh smell of green wafts into my misty sleep, the peach and plum blossoms are fragrant, bees and butterflies vie for attention. The rhythmic call of the cuckoo bird echoes from the distant valley; outside the window, it’s the season of the wind, graceful, bright, lush, and vibrant.
Then comes the gentle breeze of April, still drifting slowly. The colors become greener, the scents more fragrant. Outside the window, butterflies and dragonflies dance lightly, clouds drift freely, willows sway gracefully, and catkins float in the air.
Ah, I also recall the human world of April, with its continuous drizzle, and the smoky rain of apricot blossoms staining my gray pupils. Back then, through the window, my heart still rippled slightly, yearning for a lake of green water to stir the pale and weak heart. An unexpected rain, an unexpected sound from underground startled the hazy night. The rich aroma carried a strong soil-like smell.
In May, mountain flowers bloom exuberantly. There are no flowers by my window, but I just count the threads of light outside, marveling at their dazzling beauty. The sky is unusually clear, and the delicate heart also changes subtly with the ethereal surroundings. At that time, I wanted to be a shadow in the sunlight, longing to see that shadow wandering behind the dream curtain. What I awaited wasn't elegance, but merely a touch of heart stirred by the wind.
With the persistent drizzle, are the rotten bayberries turning brown and bright red in the valley? Listening to the rain soaking the bluish smoke clouds, my heart feels damp and drooping like the rain. Outside the window, it seems covered by the bluish smoke clouds, a vast curtain hanging between my eyes.
Looking afar, the June wind is no longer so gentle, carrying a hint of heat, swirling into the heart, and the oppressive smell follows. Thinking about June, how long will the organ music come with the croaking of frogs? Maybe after a rain, seeing the magnificent sunset, the night's symphony sings under the lonely sky. Except for that brewing heat, everything still carries a trace of gentle charm.
By the window, cooling off the summer heat, listening to the whistling wind at the threshold of July, the music played lazily among the branches. The noisy cicada sounds echo loudly in the glaring light. Squinting my eyes, feeling drowsy, that annoyance is either a frightening dream brought by the cicadas or a line of time refracted by the sunlight. Letting my body and mind wander in the gentle breeze, hearing the hot waves rise around me. The hanging bell sounds are no longer crisp and joyful.
Gazing around, August. Listening to the hoarse wind by the window, weakly carrying the breath of life. The blazing sun scorches the pitiful breeze, hiding under the shade of the leaves, watching the leaves stand still. Suddenly, I realize that even such light leaves can have a dignified posture. The clouds are no longer so clear, they are powdery white, blinding white, blinding white, and heart-piercing white. How could we preserve such cotton-like powder white, waiting for the cold autumn and winter to warm up inside? Even if I hold it tightly in my arms, it would make me forget the scorching heat.
Yes, that seems to be my fleeting moment of light, and perhaps my refreshing coolness, carrying my drowsy consciousness to wander in a soft dream. But the wind has been forgotten in the corner, drooping in slumber. Carefully observing the still leaves, pondering over the skies and waters, trying to capture those ripples, to follow the dance of the wind, but always feeling melancholy. Mistakenly, I completely wilt in the cicada's strenuous high-pitched singing.
The clear and refreshing days of September finally arrive with that proud breeze. Looking far away at the autumn waters and skies, full of fruits, it's a complete reverence. That heavy and solid weight, that open and unrestrained freedom, seems never needing gentle comfort.
The sky is so high, the clouds so happy, the wind so refreshing. A perfect golden month. With the golden wind blowing, filling the body, refreshing all things, everything calms down. Only the wind freely passes outside the window. The lush colors gradually soften, suddenly becoming desolate and bewildered.
When a brisk wind sweeps over the top of the fire, directly reaching every end. What rolls down is no longer that intense heat, but a faint coolness. October stands proudly in the wind, its solitary figure overlooking the world, with a unique sense of沧桑 (cang桑). Those youthful years have passed, only memories remain, just that warmth, and the excitement and passion of once being in full bloom.
Raindrops fall one by one, telling the sorrow of parting. Watching the leaves dance lightly in the wind, outside the window is a sad and bleak scene. At such times, I stand by the window, watching the ground filled with nostalgia turn yellow in the calendar, and the lush green turns red. The charming smile is just a fading memory, gently caressing. Originally, that aging heart thickens silently. In the deep night mist, facing the cold moonlight alone, I think of loneliness and silence.
When a lonely cry cuts through the sky, the bleak November listens to the howling wind outside the window. The dance of leaves becomes more enchanting and hurried. Butterflies hide in dreams, embracing the cold and solitude of Zhuang Zhou's butterfly dream. Listen to the rustling wind, listen to the dripping rain, listen to the crying leaves. The November wind collides wildly in the corners outside the window, lightly not touching a dream. Outside the dream, are the chirping sounds carried by the wind, singing a deep love song.
The moonlight is pure, cold without bounds. Endless time passes through the long and bitter winds and rains. Seeing the frost-covered dew drops, gentleness and desolation go hand in hand to a feast. Will December bring the north wind and snow in the world's anticipation? Only looking at the silent sky, it remains steadfast in its shallow and severe confrontation.
At that time, I rarely looked out the window. Only in the warm sunlight did I peek at the distant gray sky, checking if those floating creatures were still as free as before. And in the cold, I shivered alone in front of the moonlight, keeping a silent loneliness and speechlessness. Only when gazing at the bright moonlight far away did my heart feel a sense of cold beauty and joy.
Finally, taking a turn, my wandering gaze fell into the bustling crackling sounds. It's January, the firelight is red, the wind is bleak, the rain and snow compete for love, the snow and plum blossoms embrace each other romantically. At that time, heaven and earth become a huge fairy tale world, and rain, snow, and plum blossoms are naturally sacred in love.
My window only presents a scene, gray and pale, blurred and ambiguous, accompanied by a ray of light shining on the soul, remembered occasionally, opening a small corner to hear the wind whistle into the ear. Resonating in the heart. Bored, accompanying the cold and hot air currents, listening to the firecrackers echoing across the sky.
Originally, this season belongs to fireworks. Fireworks burst brilliantly, cooling instantly. That indescribable sadness blends heavily with the wind outside the window, cooling the warmth. Dreamlike, it seems to be a desolate dream, the clamor in the dream, when awakened, leaves only ruins, thin and lonely.
In February, spring begins. Still chilly, peach and plum buds blush coyly. The crisp wind gradually reveals a touch of gentleness. The scent is cool yet rich, hearing the wind moving mountains, icicles melting drop by drop into puddles. Underneath, melted snow inked with black spreads, dyeing the earth, compassionate tears softening the stiff dryness of winter. Listening to the ink-stained sorrow outside the window drift in the moist wind, opening bright lines. The fine rain's delicacy breaks through the soil, bringing joy and tenderness from the human world.
At that time, I leaned by the window, protecting my fingertips, lightly stomping my ankles, listening to a melody of transformation.
Outside the window, some wind sounds accompany the seasons passing by gently. Whether soft or heavy, whether moist or dry, whether humid or clear, the wind is still the wind, a bit cold, a bit eerie, a bit icy, a bit bright. Outside the window, the colors remain seemingly unchanged forever, gray and pale. Perhaps that thread of soft green and grace has been buried deep in my heart, through the misty time-space, I pick up each sealed memory and thought in the gentle breeze.
Sharing a kind of loneliness, listening to the wind walking lightly outside the window, that is the tranquility of time.
Related thematic articles:
Window
Do you really like me or not?