A sweltering season in July

In the sweltering month of July, the earth is scorched under the exposed air, and everything has lost its former freshness. I love the sound of the cello because it's like a river; the left bank holds memories I can't forget, the right bank carries the brilliant years I should cherish, and in between flows the faint melancholy of my years. In the sultry days of July, the cello provides solace for the soul, sparing it from being scorched under the blazing sun. Every summer, there's always a subtle sadness that lingers in my heart, perhaps from the lingering sorrow or the pursuit of fleeting shadows. Everything seems without a beginning, disguising its end.

Gradually, my world becomes uncertain. Yes, we've all grown up, inevitably facing more uncertainties. These uncertainties accumulate and form our growth.

A poet once said: Summer is a season with sounds – the blossoming of flowers, the growing of grass, and our subtle maturation. We admire the growth of grass and blooming of flowers, quietly maturing in the tranquil July. Yet, we must confront the city’s clamor and complexity.

With each cycle of the seasons, it feels as if I’ve returned to that summer. The steps of middle school gradually fade away, and I can even clearly hear the rhythm of my heartbeat, free from emotion and entanglement.

In that same summer, there was an inexplicable joy and anticipation in my heart, but ultimately, everything was swallowed by the torrent of time, silently...

Sitting on a southbound train accompanied by gentle music, I slowly realized that I am a wanderer, without a destination or longing, piecing together fragmented memories bit by bit.

These silken threads of memory cause endless confusion in my heart. Are we standing outside youth or within it? Gazing at those memories that seem within reach yet intangible, the emotions in my heart seem only able to be poured out through the delicate tip of a pen, erupting like the rising sun in the east, proving its greatness to humanity and the earth.

The sail of dreams, like withering lotus flowers, struggles to emit its last whiff of fragrance in the autumn wind, proving its unwavering persistence.

Yes, over the year, we've all changed a lot. The beautiful scenes in my dreams have been cruelly torn apart by the passage of time. Those familiar yet strange faces, are they imprinted in my heart or scattered in the wind? Perhaps he will understand, and that person in the wind will read it. We rebel, we wander, but we also stand on the edge of civilization. Ha, maybe we're cultured ruffians, growing and resisting in the cracks.

This feeling has always been present, weathering storms along the way, basking in occasional rays of sunlight – warm light spots that last a lifetime. Under the moonlight, all the splendor fades. Is it the sorrowful withering of roses or the melancholy I've scattered across the ground? In this journey of wandering, where is the next stop? Where is my destination? Where is my timeless waiting?

Memories replay scene by scene, recalling the past while unable to see the future.

Perhaps, maybe once it's passed, it should remain buried in the heart, not to be brought up again.

(Responsible Editor: Endpoint)