A feeling, being scribbled back and forth by time,
only a few yellowed love letters remain,
the handwriting is blurred. I read it occasionally, but I can no longer read it with the enthusiasm it once had. Thinking of a light rain, without the help of clouds, it is difficult to shed a tear.
Let alone those days, those days have long been deserted. That acacia tree is old and decrepit, dancing with three leaves and two, listening to the wind in boredom.
In the past, the river was filled with waves of love and flowed with passion. And I always wash my hands and face by the river to look at the distant scenery. Later the river dried up for no reason.
Love is a dream, even if it happens at night when you love to dream, it is difficult to happen. Now, I always wonder, have you ever had such a dream in this life? By the way, there was a little bit of it, which was chewed into foam and floated into a few vague stars.
I like to whistle. In my dreams, I use the whistle to simulate the lightness of the staff. A scene where imagination seems to exist, but is just a beautiful phantom. Now, it's all just lumps of sugar that have melted into smaller and smaller pieces and almost disappeared, and the remaining feeling is getting hazier and hazier.
I like to think and imagine what happened in the past. Even the words, even the passing by, even the look, I imagined them completely. Although the story left behind is beautiful, it did not happen.
I often ask, have I ever? The past, the past that was similar to love? Yes, it is also clouds and wind. Yes, in the mirror of wind, flowers, snow and moon, there is the past I loved.
2022.7.15
