End of Days

When disaster strikes, some people always manage to escape by luck.

A gunshot needs no reason, and a life ends. Twisted struggle, pale howls, blood flowing—we are all part of a distant sin.

Breathing too faintly to blow away the ant that wants to fly, watching it wither in the sun, I pick a leaf to pray for it.

The Yellow River flows like the artery of a human body, a surging river of crimson. Upstream, people slaughter each other; downstream, people bathe in their blood. So despair grows, endless. I pour a cup of dark night, add a flickering black shadow, footsteps following in step, drinking alone under the lamplight, laughing with a bone-chilling hatred, sacrificing myself in blood.

The faith of life is absurd and terrifying. Clearly the snow has melted, the angel has never come, and I raise my hands to the sky screaming desperately, yet someone says I am a thousand-year-old towering tree. Faith has no reason to be found; it is the sniper rifle standing on the arrow tower, and you, walking leisurely, die without knowing why.

One exit is another entrance. There is no such thing as freedom; every day, the worry is cold, plague, and inexplicable assassinations. Evil rules everything, with greed and jealousy as its right and left hands.

Just like in a pitch-black cave, a person who has lost their mind screams tearfully, striking aimlessly with the weapon in hand. Some die, some escape, but those who escape still cannot avoid death. Death is like a rubber band tied to your body; the further you go, the more it pulls you back. The further you go, the greater the rubber band's elasticity, and the closer you are to your starting point. Walking for a lifetime, just a few decades, in the end like an infant placed in bed, sympathized with, pitied, treated as ignorant. Heaven and earth are so vast, yet change is inevitable.

Who is the hero? Who is eternal? Who is true unto death?

This world is nothing but a cesspool, collecting all the filth, good and bad fermenting together. God, is your blue flame clean? Are angels the residue burned in the eighteenth level of hell?

It feels like wilderness; the hands once held are now bitten by the present self into a bloody, unrecognizable mess. In days of eating raw meat and drinking blood, everyone lives merrily, faces showing satisfied expressions, stomachs flowing with the blood of others. Some grew disgusted; the disgusted starved; the starved had their bodies divided.

Does resistance work? Have you ever seen an angel resist? The crawling ones are the cowardly; the cowardly crawl. The strong stand up; those who stand are the strong. Since ancient times, the victor is king, the loser the bandit. Who would pursue the bittersweet behind a single tear of poverty? The hypocritical think themselves right, the arrogant revere themselves alone, the timid are obsequious, the death-fearing gain life, the life-fearing merely survive. Everyone gets what they want. Who would resist? Everyone is content. Resist for whom?

A terrible doomsday is about to come. The dreamer smiles sweetly, as peaceful as the dead. Ideals recede further and further. Raising a hand to say goodbye, it blocks others' view.

The traveler is exhausted, lying on the sand barely alive. Suddenly it snows. A gunshot is heard, and a trail of bright red blood spreads out.

Survival is important, of course, but life should not be toyed with. Dignity is above all else.