Reflecting upon the bygone era when our yearning for confiding was mistaken
for creative prowess, amidst the turmoil of nocturnal study sessions and
dimly illuminated dormitories, we perpetually found ourselves wedged amidst
towering stacks of daunting exercises and examination papers. Beneath the
gradually waning emergency light, one hand propped up the impenetrable night
while the other hand inscribed unutterable words.
Should we one day vanish into the throng, leading an unremarkable existence,
it shall be because we failed to ardently embrace life to its fullest
potential. This reminiscence evokes the days of my youth, when I was naive
and brimming with confidence in trivial matters, even hastening my stride as
if eager to confront life head-on.
Yet, when a sharp pebble intruded into my shoe, frustration would erupt
within me, as if the world had rejected my very being. Nonetheless, as time
elapsed, I gradually came to comprehend that the essence of existence lies
in leading a fulfilling life. I vividly recollect those sleepless yet
unconscious days, akin to a Cézanne oil painting, simultaneously bleak and
vibrant, chaotic yet beautiful, showcasing both wounds and sweetness without
delineation. Following a life of solitude, a sudden realization dawned upon
me regarding the absurdity of my misconception regarding "departure."
The landscapes within those flickering memories and the irretrievable
passage of time have all slipped away from my grasp. I began to learn how to
grieve for them, endeavoring to inter them once more, constructing a grand
monument to commemorate my losses. Two forms of courage, unique to
adolescence: the former resolves to disregard everything, while the latter
elects to consider everything. Standing at a familiar terminus and an
enigmatic starting point, the ceaseless fatigue of the marathon knows no
respite. We are all thornbirds, halting only once in our lives, at the
moment of death.
When we vociferously proclaim that youth is everything to us, none shall
fault us for our ostensibly cynical smiles. The significance of youth lies
in being a requiem imbued with rock-infused melancholy, even as tears
cascade with sorrow. It transpires that certain things are truly fulfilled
without intent, and certain individuals are truly destined beyond the realms
of imagination.
Maturation is an agonizing process, and I find myself gradually becoming
accustomed to this pain. As I approach the age of sixteen, will I truly be
able to efface the wounds inflicted by those individuals and events? I shall
slowly inter them within the darkest recesses of my heart. Perchance,
peculiar grass may sprout, or resplendent flowers may bloom, or perhaps
naught shall flourish at all. In that case, let it fade away gradually, and
I shall likewise forget this memory, relinquishing remembrance of how I once
lived with tears in my eyes and a smile upon my countenance.
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