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The Silent Requiem of Youth |
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In reflecting on the bygone era, I recall a time when our longing for
connection was mistaken for creative genius. Amid the chaos of sleepless
nights spent under dim dormitory lights, we were always ensnared between
towering stacks of assignments and exams, struggling to survive the grind of
academic life. Beneath the flickering emergency light, one hand would prop
up the weariness of night, while the other scrawled thoughts too weighty for
words.
If we ever disappear into the throng, leading lives of quiet obscurity, it
will be because we failed to fully embrace the vibrancy of life. This
thought summons memories of my youthful days, when naïveté and misplaced
confidence reigned. I strode forward eagerly, as though rushing to meet
life’s challenges head-on. Yet, at the smallest discomfort—like a sharp
pebble in my shoe—frustration would swell, as though the world itself had
turned against me. Over time, I came to understand that the meaning of life
is not found in grand gestures but in living it fully, in its simplest
moments.
I remember those sleepless nights, a haze of unconsciousness that resembled
a Cézanne painting—bleak yet vivid, chaotic but beautiful, where wounds and
sweetness bled together. Through the solitude, I realized how absurdly I had
misunderstood the notion of "departure." The fleeting images of my past and
the irretrievable march of time slipped away, and I learned to grieve for
them. I built mental monuments to my losses, attempting to bury them anew.
There are two kinds of courage in youth: one that dismisses everything, and
another that bears the weight of it all. At the crossroads of a familiar end
and an uncertain beginning, the unrelenting fatigue of life’s marathon knows
no pause. We are all like thornbirds, destined to sing our song only once—in
the moment of death.
When we boldly declare that youth means everything to us, no one should
fault us for our wry smiles. Youth is a requiem—haunted by rock-infused
melancholy and tears born of sorrow. Some things, it seems, are fulfilled
without intent; some people are destined beyond the reach of our
imagination.
Growing up is a painful journey, and I am slowly learning to live with that
pain. As I approach sixteen, I wonder if I will ever heal from the wounds
inflicted by people and events long past. I will bury them deep within the
darkest chambers of my heart. Perhaps strange grasses will grow, or radiant
flowers will bloom. Or perhaps nothing will flourish at all. If that is the
case, I will let them fade and forget—forget how I once lived with tears in
my eyes and a smile on my face. |
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