The days passed by like this, often not knowing how they came, but thinking that I could see how they went. Now, my heart is clear, and the fleeting traces become clearer as I recall them later. The past spring, and the farewell to the early spring, seemed to be just like this season's spring in my heart. It felt like they were going away in a hurry, but in retrospect, it seemed slower. How I wrote and pondered with what words and emotions, it has only just become clear.
I have never stopped asking such questions, never stopped reminiscing, but I have never had an answer to give, which makes me involuntarily intoxicated and even more infatuated.
I asked the plum blossoms in the corner of the courtyard, watching them, feeling sad for the sleeping flowers under the slightly distant peach tree. I asked the begonias by the steps, watching them, feeling their new buds on the pear tree nearby not being happy. I also asked the evening breeze, but it didn't say anything, just looked at me, then looked at the moon in the clear night sky, staring for a long time. At first, I didn't quite understand, but gradually, the joy and tenderness that didn't surge in my heart seemed to spread like a poem nestled among lotus leaves, flowing happily along the bright path illuminated by the warm sun. I originally wanted to ask the bright moon, but before I could catch a glimpse, the evening breeze that was still by my side disappeared. When I looked again, the pond, which was gently caressing a few withered lotus plants, was rippling with waves.
In a daze, I felt that this clear pond was no longer as it used to be, but just a place that had bid farewell to many departures in the courtyard. Perhaps it will never ripple with the same cold blue waves again. The strands of light, clearly illuminated by the warm sun, were just like that.
After a long time, I no longer thought about asking or inquiring. I felt that it was just a dream, like a dream of yellow millet.
I know very well that saying this now is no longer the same as before, pretending to be carefree, and how can it be so casual? In the past, everything was already a past thought and dream, no matter how much I miss it. At least now, I can't think of comparing the dream that has disappeared without a trace to the departing shadow. But it's just a thought. Whether it's a joyful dream or a melancholic illusion, it will disappear overnight. The wind has always been gentle, carrying the sparse smoke and turning towards an unknown distance. When the moment of dawn comes, even if I try to recall, only the present and the future remain.
The moon last night was still desolate, the melancholy of early spring, but it will never make the warm sun of this season sad. The warm sun yesterday was gentle and long, the brilliance of early spring, but it will never make the bright moon of this season mournful. What I think now is just pondering over the feeling of "the past" that is filled with tenderness. It is only now that I realize that after I leave, besides tenderness, there should be such contemplation.
At this moment, I think of a line from the Peking Opera "The Locked Lute Case" by Xue Xiangling: "He taught me to let go of resentment, stop being coquettish, start anew, change my temperament, stop longing for the past, and find rebirth in the bitter sea, understanding the reason for the orchid early."
Yes, when looking back at what hasn't come, how many hopes will be lost again.