Picking up those resuscitative memories, I realize changes over a whole season have been laid aside. You return to my side with a strong burst of wind. The sadness and the happiness, the separation and gathering, the worldly wisdom, among other things, are laughing stocks in your eyes.
January, February, March, April. During the time I deem firmly you forget everything about me, you never forget that girl as a matter of fact.
It is extremely a big shock. How can I respond to this constantly change? Happily, excitedly, surprisingly, or with that rousing spirit ever? Sorry, I cannot.
These won’t become fundamental keys of my love. The best reply to you is a cold and detached silence. You know clearly I am not that guy who spends a lot getting myself engaged in the past. The ever-existed confusion is sacrificed for my passed youth, however beautiful or painful it was. I will never repent of my decision, though with so many scars on that romantic period with you.
I love you at my best season, but you kill all my dreams. You are an executioner, driving me into that dreadful samsara. There exits no hatred or grievance. Instead, I accept everything you grant generously and then part company you with a magnificent smile. Because I love you, and loved you ever.
Lost in these confusing and ice-cold dreams, I know gradually our lives ahead conform to my forethought. Realizing there will be two strangers’ existence in our surroundings sooner or later, I cannot control my tears anymore. One by one, many tears’ piling up forms a sea which flood my whole world without waves from then on.
In fact, how clearly I know about my feelings. Those memories move back and forth in my heart which are impossible to be erased. Thus, they root firmly deep in my heart.
Sky in April should be so azure that leave no space for any flaw. However, it is now so dirty that I cannot have the heart to give a direct sight. Does the sky pollute our mortal lives or on the contrary. Nobody understands how I’d like to weep over the sky to evaporate every grievance, innocence, sorrow, and every dissatisfaction. But I am sorry I cannot. With my eyes running dry, I do not have the ability to cry. I am not only a blind, also a girl lacking in tears.
The pale and week spring, short of enough sunlight, make all creatures become gloomy and doomy, with sand touching my face in a strong windblown stream. That’s why I am dying to witness summer’s steps.
Those young faces, sweet smiles, clean school uniforms, ignorant ages are far away from my side. I begin to admire at these teenagers who walk past me quickly. They are too pure to touch any dust or experience fake affairs. You can witness warm halation with bright shining from the remote sun. I’m jealous of the unique fantasy and openness belonging only to them. I envy them of this pure age, this clean face even to the degree that I have forgotten how I grew up, how I spent those beautiful times. Occasionally, I won’t take my defeat lying down to cry to others, “it seems I am younger than seventeen.” As a result, everybody gives the same supercilious look. I can only return to my seat pitifully, and proceed to deal with my memories. Seventeen, as I never occupied before. Otherwise why cannot I recall that blank space, too empty in my memories to fear to move a little bit further.
I will offer myself the chance to burn small flames again and again in order to boycott the coldness freezing given by the dim sunlight over my every season till now.
Hello, you miss me?
Hello, you care about me?
Hello, you hate to part with me?
Hello, can you stay forever with me?