The box of memories is often opened unintentionally, and I try to grasp something, yet time cannot flow backward. The pure white background and the strokes of blue belong only to that irreplaceable chapter of youth...
Rene Liu once sang: be grateful for your eighteen-year-old self, so strong, which is why you have who you are today. Likewise, I want to thank the self from August 2010 to June 2011, whose persistence and stubbornness kept me from losing my way in the years that followed.
Perhaps we once walked so far that we forgot why we set out; perhaps after a long journey we discovered nothing but desolation ahead... Yet no matter what, after walking this far, what drives us forward is no longer merely the scenery ahead, but the persistence already invested and the unwillingness to give up so easily.
Yes, those were years painted in white and blue. In those days measured in minutes and even seconds, I still clearly remember fragments of myself: the hurried footsteps, the eyes constantly checking the clock during meals, and the determination to never waste a moment during breaks; the deep blue dream hidden in my heart remained vivid—longing for a journey to the north, admiring Kyoto where tradition and modernity intertwine, and gazing up at the sacred ivory tower in my mind.
Yes, those were sculpted years. I once believed that even when standing in humility, one day the heart could rise on the wind; I also told myself that even if groping in darkness, as long as I saw a faint light ahead, I could only whisper, “It is beautiful, but it does not belong to me yet.” Even if there were flowers, shade, and quiet harbors along the road, I remained an unmoored boat, continuing forward.
