Deep sorrow denies me slumber,
I suffer this night that refuses to fade.
The bright moon shines on piled snow,
The northern wind is fierce and mournful.
Time flows on, leaving nothing behind,
The years pass, and I feel the haste of age.

Clearly, it is the transition between summer and autumn, yet the surrounding cold wind already feels like winter. I do not know what the people on the playground are doing; I can only see clusters of red and green squirming about, devoid of any meaning. Retracing the old path, painful memories of the past surge forth incessantly. It is clearly the past; the past of the past was still laced with a bit of nostalgia, but the current past leaves only pain. The road surface, the color of a gloomy sky, echoes the faint haze of the afternoon.

In the pitch-black night, on the narrow patch of snow illuminated brightly by the moonlight yet void of all things, it seems my despair is buried. A solitary soul by a cold lamp in the night.

It has been eight years. If one remembers for one or two years, perhaps it is merely a child’s naivety; if one remembers for five or six years, it can only be called a lingering throe; but now that it has been eight years, I still cannot forget this day. If in the more distant future I still cannot forget, then what is this? Is it that I have never grown up, or is this indeed truly important?
I still remember this day in 2016, when the flower of happiness bloomed in the desert of my barren and melancholic heart: zyx accepted my confession.
Eight years have passed, yet the day I remembered remains etched in my bones and heart. It was a Sunday. I first used the “whisper” function that still existed on QQ at the time to ask if she had someone she liked. She confirmed. She pressed for my identity. I exposed myself. I was discovered. It was confirmed. And she, likely smiling, replied that she had long known my intentions—though even now, on the other side of time, I do not know if that was true or false. The joy that followed still glimmers faintly in my mind, which is now wrapped in gloomy gray. At least on that day, I was even bouncing around.

There the millet droops heavy,
There the sorghum shoots rise.
Slowly I walk, aimless and weary,
My heart is shaken within.
Those who know me say my heart is sorrowful,
Those who know me not ask what I seek.
O distant Azure Heaven,
Who is this man?

There the millet droops heavy,
There the sorghum ears appear.
Slowly I walk, aimless and weary,
My heart is as if drunk.
Those who know me say my heart is sorrowful,
Those who know me not ask what I seek.
O distant Azure Heaven,
Who is this man?

There the millet droops heavy,
There the sorghum grain is set.
Slowly I walk, aimless and weary,
My heart is as if choked.
Those who know me say my heart is sorrowful,
Those who know me not ask what I seek.
O distant Azure Heaven,
Who is this man?

My heart is shaken, my heart is shaken; God knows how much longer I must remember.

Afterwards, this story soon met an ending that should not have come so swiftly. This story died very quickly; it died in the dried tears of the night, died within the vast distance and alienated nature, died in a broad swamp of regret.

Truly, it is as clean as if it never existed. Except for my current memory.

So I must commemorate it.

2024/9/25 20:40