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It's hard to pinpoint when it all began—when I first
stumbled forward, unsure of the path, unsure of myself. My earliest steps
toward a future I couldn’t yet imagine now seem small, uncertain, and out of
sync with reality. Over time, I came to see how wide the gulf was between
what I hoped for and what truly was—like the distance between spring’s
warmth and winter’s chill. Always just beyond reach.
Looking back now, the road behind me is scattered with the seasons of
eighteen years. It’s a trail of confusion, of highs and lows, of laughter
and silence. I often wonder—what kind of person leaves behind such uneven,
unpredictable footprints? But how could I answer a question like that, when
I am still walking the path?
At an old desk, I sit watching the world change outside my window—day by
day, moment by moment. I find myself wondering: years from now, will anyone
else sit in this same chair, in the same stillness? Like a forgotten reel of
film, endlessly capturing life outside while slowly fading within. And when
I’m finally noticed, perhaps I’ll already have become a relic of a time long
past. My only legacy? That I saw it all unfold.
The winter wind creeps in through the cracks of the window, lifting the
worn, deep red curtains to reveal a row of eight diaries—some new, others
faded with age. Inside them, scattered emotions trace my growth: from naïve
to aware, cheerful to indifferent, from thinking the world was unfair to
understanding its quiet logic. In pages messy and honest, I find the record
of someone slowly becoming.
Eighteen years. It feels like a lifetime to me.
Time never stops to wait for us. Like a quiet breeze, it slips through our
hands and pushes forward, whether we’re ready or not. It’s not time’s job to
wait. It’s ours to keep pace—or be left behind.
In the heart of a crowded square, a tall parasol tree stands alone. The cold
winter air strips its last few leaves, and its bare branches stretch upward,
as though yearning to touch something beyond. In their stillness, there’s a
quiet grief—an unspoken mourning of what’s passed, and perhaps, a whisper of
what’s still to come. |
