Deep grief forbids me slumber, bitter is this night so slow to wane.
The bright moon shines on drifted snow, the northern wind wails in its might and woe.
Fate moves on, sparing naught to stay; the passing years now haste my life away.

Though it is clearly just the turn of summer into autumn, the cold wind around me already bites like winter. I have no idea what the people on the sports ground are doing; all I can see are blobs of red and green squirming about, utterly meaningless. Retracing the old path, painful memories of the past along this road come surging back incessantly. It is clearly the past, yet while the past of back then was still mingled with a touch of nostalgia, the past of now leaves only pain. The pavement, the same gloomy hue as the sky, echoes the faint haze of the afternoon.

In the pitch-black night, upon the narrow, utterly empty stretch of snow lit starkly bright by the moonlight, it feels as though my despair lies buried. By a cold lamp, a lone soul in the night.

It has been eight years. To remember for a year or two might just be a child’s naivety; to remember for five or six years could only be called a lingering throe. But now it has been eight years, and I still cannot forget today. If in the even more distant future I still cannot forget, then what is this? Is it that I have never grown up, or is this truly that important?
I still remember today in '16, when the flower of happiness bloomed upon the barren, melancholic desert of my heart: zyx accepted my confession.
It has been eight years, and the day I memorized back then remains etched in my bones. It was a Sunday. First, I used the whisper function that qq still had at the time to ask if there was someone she liked. She confirmed, pressed for my identity, I was exposed, discovered, confirmed, and she must have replied with a smile that she had known my feelings all along—though even now, on the other side of time, I do not know if that was true or false. The joy that followed still glows faintly in my mind, which is now wrapped in gloomy gray. At least on that day, I was even skipping and jumping along.

Yon millet droops in rows, yon sorghum in the blade.
With lingering steps I go, my inmost heart is swayed.
Who knows me says my heart is full of woe; who knows me not asks what I seek below.
O distant azure Heaven, what man hath made it so?

Yon millet droops in rows, yon sorghum in the ear.
With lingering steps I go, my inmost heart as steeped in wine.
Who knows me says my heart is full of woe; who knows me not asks what I seek below.
O distant azure Heaven, what man hath made it so?

Yon millet droops in rows, yon sorghum in the grain.
With lingering steps I go, my inmost heart as choked with pain.
Who knows me says my heart is full of woe; who knows me not asks what I seek below.
O distant azure Heaven, what man hath made it so?

My inmost heart is swayed, swaying within my heart—God knows how much longer I am to remember this.

Afterward, this story quickly met an ending that should never have come so soon. This story died quickly—died in the tears that dried in the night, died amidst the vast distance and our aloof natures, died in a wide, sprawling marsh of regret.

Truly as clean as if it had never existed at all. Except for my memory now.

So I must keep commemorating it.

2024/9/25 20:40