The wind blows through the void. Another year passes, and so will the next. I do not know if tranquility hides melancholy, or if melancholy holds tranquility. We simply cannot find the answer.
Leaving makes things simple and people kind. Like a child, we can start anew.
A wounded beast can hide in a cave, licking its own wounds and persevering alone; but once it receives warmth and care, it can no longer bear it.
A wound is like me—a stubborn child that refuses to heal, because the inner heart is a warm, moist place where anything can grow.
Knowing you are a child prone to worry, I hand you the string but dare not fly too far. No matter how high I fly into the clouds, I hope you can see me; even if I occasionally get lost playing, I know you are waiting.
I do not like to speak, yet I speak the most every day. I do not like to laugh, yet I laugh incessantly. Everyone around says my life is happy, so I have come to believe it is true. But why do I suddenly fall silent in a crowd, why do I feel sorrow at a familiar silhouette, why do I forget to speak when autumn leaves fall, or lose my direction when the evening lights flicker on?
Youth is a bright melancholy. I did not cry, yet the tears flowed.
I hope one day I can travel with you, seeing unseen mountains and walking unvisited waters, squandering unspent youth and commemorating the uncommemorable. Youth is like water; whether spread out or held tight, the thin years cannot be grasped through one's fingers.
Suddenly, I feel like a magnificent puppet, acting out all the joys and sorrows, yet countless silver threads always pull my every move.
Memory is like decaying leaves; the freshness and tenderness were buried in the early stages of time, leaving only the overwhelming scent of decay at the end. As I stubbornly carry my bag on a new journey, I know that as long as a few friends watch from behind, their eyes as vast as the sunset make me feel the weight. But when we decide to travel alone, casting aside all curses and betrayals, we can smile stubbornly and cry sadly, while still marching forward with firm steps. *Dream of Flowers Falling*
I am always attracted by the beautiful compositions of Chinese characters. Reading them repeatedly, I always feel that Chinese is the most beautiful language, though not the most melodious.
