Forgive me for not being able to remember you deeply; I selfishly wish to forget our past. Perhaps it is not that we did not love deeply enough, but that the wound was too profound; not that the arrival was too sudden, but the departure was too hasty; not that fate was too cruel, but that I simply walked into the wrong world of yours.
I record my lingering thoughts in word after word, but never speak them to anyone. I wish to entrust my feelings to a zither, but acquaintances are few and the strings break—who is there to listen? Even if I spoke, few could understand, but you were always different.
Clothes, ties, belts, watches, briefcases—I have given them all, and none feel new. Buying him a new car is not something every woman can afford—unless she uses his money. Knitting him a sweater might be a lovely idea, but unfortunately, most women these days no longer know how to knit.
Unfortunately, I was wrong. Even after a lifetime apart, encountering you again in a sea of people, my longing for you has never faded, nor has the memory of your smile dimmed. In moments of hesitation and wandering, I find myself thinking of you—the one I have sought through all my past and present lives.
Everything has its limit, much like water boils at 100°C and freezes at 0°C. If one pursues perfection too strictly, things become imperfect. No matter what we do, we must learn to stop at the right time and act within our capabilities; relentless pursuit of perfection only brings unnecessary troubles.
You have always been a spectator, watching me dance like a clown before you, tearing myself to pieces within your world. While you find joy, you also wound me, the one who loves you devotedly.