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The Silent Requiem of Youth
 
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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