Unfinished Love

Those who know me say my heart is troubled; those who don't know me ask what I'm worried about. The narrowness of mind comes from the limitation of the space in which one acts—and I've been cooped up in this one-square-meter place for a full twenty years! As for the gradual erosion of ambition and the death of ideals, myopia of vision is beyond comparison. Going to college, I witnessed how human hearts were no longer as they once were, the moral order in disarray. I wanted to turn the tide, but in the end I had the will but not the power, with nothing left but a surge of hot blood cast upon the bleak evening light.

Having come this far, what was it all for? When did I become so lost... Habitually borrowing trouble that doesn't exist, I never considered that every word and deed of mine planted seeds of danger, step by step; every bite and sip has its own heaven-sent order. Twenty years of exploration, and all I've dug is a three-foot grave, unable to hide the despair and sorrow. Now I'm left with just an empty shell, drifting aimlessly like a walking corpse.

The flow of material desire, for a dying man, holds no temptation. What remains is just an unfinished thread of affection.

"In rites, there are three forms of unfilial conduct: first, obeying and fawning, leading parents into injustice; second, when the family is poor and parents old, not seeking office for a living; third, not taking a wife and having no son, cutting off the ancestral line. Among these three, having no descendants is the greatest." Even someone as unrestrained as Ruan Ji, when it comes to filial piety, would not dare show any disrespect. The teachings of the ancient sages, passed down to today, have vanished. Even I, a perfectly ordinary person, feel no shame in my heart, let alone words of mourning. Of the three forms of unfilial conduct, I've committed two—I should reflect for nine days.

Now your temples are showing white. If there were a chance to start over, would the road ahead still be the same? Was it your failure to teach, or my obedience and fawning that led you into injustice?

What you cultivated—was it a potted plant for old-age comfort? Or a towering giant tree in the courtyard? In the end, you were never a delicate gardener, and I could never be the most brilliant bloom in a hundred flowers.

A few true friends in life are enough; in this world, we should regard each other as kindred. Mountains are high and roads long, yet our silhouettes remain in the evening breeze. Though we are far apart, the deep, unspoken bonds linger in our minds. Drop by drop, endless mutual appreciation!

Wrong, truly wrong—it's all my fault. Already surrounded by enemies on all sides, why bother with the past! Why bother with the past, ending up abandoned by everyone.

She walks further and further away, yet her silhouette remains unusually clear. Time seemed to pause at that moment, imprisoned in those colorful letters soaked in blood and tears. The paths walked, the people missed, like drifting clouds, rising waves—every time the wind rises, the heart wanders in dreams, aching in pain.

It really is "once you've seen the great sea, no other water suffices; except for Wushan, no other clouds will do," or "her face is gone, I know not where; the peach blossoms still smile at the spring breeze."

A hundred years of cultivation to share a boat crossing—when fate ends, anyone can only sigh in resignation, then turn away suddenly.

The wick has turned to ash, the wax weeps with tears, yet the candlelight passes love into every heart, igniting an inextinguishable fire of hope.