Time flows like a stream, as the years march on with unchanging steps, passing through every spring, summer, autumn, and winter, through every sunny and cloudy day. Looking back, the departed days are like a shaking kaleidoscope, inadvertently forming patterns that can never be replicated; every reunion, parting, joy, and sorrow becomes a unique masterpiece. I have come to realize that youth is a one-way train, with no way to return and no stations to stop at.
The morning bells and evening drums urge me to set my sails, yet my heart remains like a leaf clinging to its branch, hesitating in the winds of yesterday. I know I must not delay my journey, yet I find it hard to break free from the shackles of emotion, unable to seal my past within the castle of memory. As I drift through days of sunrise and sunset, I feel as if I am standing in a clear river; that flowing water is my life, which I possess only once. Too often, I stand still in the water, letting the upstream flow pass through me to become the downstream, letting the future passing through my present become the past. Because I am too preoccupied with yesterday, I lose today and tomorrow, eventually leaving me with nothing.
I often imagine what my state of mind will be when the blossoms and fruits of spring and autumn have all become history, and I sit amidst the memories of my past, gray-haired, pondering the stories etched into every wrinkle on my face. I should have learned enough to believe less, yet I still fall prey to deceptive tales; I should have learned to love spring more after enduring winter, yet I still yearn for the innocence of fairy tales. The path traveled seems like a circle; after a long journey, one finds themselves back at the starting point. Thus, many times, I find myself doing the same thing: searching for my purpose.
After wandering through dark contemplations, I finally understood the profound mystery behind the cycle of grass withering and blooming; it is the most intuitive lesson of life: flowers bloom red only once, and grass stays green for only a season. The past flows away like smoke, drifting with the seasonal winds; why struggle to chase or recall it? The train of youth carries countless passengers; no one can predict the encounters along the way, and no one can return to the station where they first boarded. Since there is no other choice, let me crush my past disappointments and successes upon the tracks of time, push open the windows, and embrace the fresh air and sunshine of a new journey. For I have learned that youth is a one-way train, with no return and no stations.
