To arrange language at will is enough.
Flowers silently lift their heads to gaze at the sun, while the latter unfurls its radiance, bearing a faint smile.
Upon the plain lies an endless expanse of green grass.
I hold up a green umbrella, treading slowly amidst this sea of green.
With no interference from anyone around, I can indulge my imagination wildly; I can create everything I desire within a void.
The sun is gradually tucked away, pale grey clouds gather, and the sky appears on the verge of weeping…
Deprived of the golden light reflecting off the leaves, the green grass, too, loses its vitality…
The rain falls pitter-patter, dripping onto the umbrella, then sliding off drop by drop.
Suddenly, I behold a golden light blooming from a raindrop, as if she has opened her eyes—majesty coexisting with innocence, passion and coldness held in equal measure—scrutinizing this gloomy world, scrutinizing the gloomy me.
She halts her fall and flies toward the heavens; wherever she passes, countless droplets seem to burst with new life, and the golden light in her eyes is that very newborn life.
Soon, everything between heaven and earth is flooded with the gold emanating from the rain. How pale that color is… how gentle… not scorching, but soothing this lost world…
Just as you comfort me.
I close the storybook, and you have already fallen asleep. Your even breathing resembles a graceful melody; I listen, entranced. Were Chopin present, this rhythm would be sublimated into a work transcending the Nocturnes.
2020/08/17