Time flows like water, and the years march forward at a constant, unhurried pace, traversing the changing seasons and the alternation of clear and cloudy days. Looking back, the distant past resembles a shaking kaleidoscope, casually revealing unique patterns that cannot be replicated; every reunion, separation, joy, and sorrow has become a limited edition. Thus, I realize that youth is a one-way bus that cannot turn back and has no intermediate stops.
Morning bells and evening drums urge me to raise my sails for the voyage, yet my heart lingers like a leaf clinging to its old branch, hesitating in the wind of yesterday, reluctant to let go. I know I should not delay my journey, yet I cannot free myself from the bonds of emotion, nor can I seal away everything I have experienced in the castle of memory. After rebirth, with my heart tightly locked, I watch the sun set and the moon rise day after day, as if standing in a clear river. The clear water is the life I possess and will only possess once. Yet too often, I merely stand in the water, allowing the current from upstream to flow past me and become the downstream, allowing the future to flow through my present and become the past. Because I am excessively immersed in yesterday, I lose both today and tomorrow, ultimately possessing nothing.
I often imagine that when spring blossoms and autumn fruits have all become history, I will sit in the depths of yesterday's memories, my head covered in snow, chewing on the stories hidden in every wrinkle on my face. What a state of mind that would be! I should understand that the more one knows, the less one believes, yet I am still fooled time and again by the fairy tale of "the wolf is coming." I should love spring more after passing through winter, yet I still linger on the fairy tale of "The Snow Child." The path walked seems to be a circle; after a long journey, I return to the starting point. Thus, much of the time, I am engaged in the same task: searching for a goal.
In the dim silence, I pondered deeply and finally deciphered that the simplest cycle of grass withering and flourishing is a profound mystery, serving as a direct visual aid for life: Flowers bloom red only once, and grass stays green for only one year. The past flows like this, and the smoky memories have already scattered with the monsoon; why struggle to pursue or recall them? The bus of youth carries countless passengers, no one can predict the encounters along the way, and no one can return to the station where they boarded. Since there is no other choice, let me crush the former disappointments and successes on the steel rails of time, then open the doors and windows, bathe in the fresh air and sunlight, and welcome a brand new journey. For I now know that youth is a one-way bus, unable to return, with no stations to stop at.
