11/10

The eve of the third, the fourth Singles' Day, and I'm still single in this secluded, quiet little room, living a life I take for granted. I vaguely remember my very first Singles' Day, the fall of 2008, just entering college; it was us who sang smugly, making a racket for others. I remember the impulse of pulling an all-nighter that night, and our snickering. Also, that night, we were all single.

Now it's this day again—thinking about it, it's a bit sad, a bit laughable. Some people, some things, have finally faded from our view, faded from our hearts. While some things, some people, have become clearer, even engraved in our minds. So we have to admit: time makes us constantly gain, and constantly lose. And we, in this process, gradually grow, or grow old. Youth always comes in a hurry and leaves in a hurry, leaving us blank-faced and lost.

I'm glad I still have so many words to say to the screen. Because there are too many things hidden deep in my heart; I hope someone can unravel all the mysteries on me, and guide me on a path I should take. I hope someone will be with me, growing old together, watching sunrises and sunsets together, feeling the warmth of spring and the cool of autumn together.

But me—what kind of person do I want to become? In any field, I want to do my best to do something significant. I want to look down on the world, and taste the air of a king. I also want to walk down a quiet path, listening to the wind, touching the traces of rain. And I, in this little room at last, have dreamt through a thousand autumns, becoming a wanderer.

Twenty-one should be a season of blooming flowers, but my world has been left with only black and white, because I have turned away from the sun, because I just want to be a watchman counting time through the night.

Flowers bloom and fall in dreams, people come and go in dreams—dreams have become a part of my life. So, I have also become a part of the dream, and a part of me has become a dream.

Today is a day of some growth, some failure. I recited some ancient texts—that counts as one achievement. I went to the library, and felt a warmth like spring wind brushing my ear, and a longing long missed. Perhaps I should belong to a world of books; I should be a well-read person, freely talking about the warmth and cold of the world.

People are always too fragile, too lazy—people always, when forced beyond options, take desperate chances and do things that betray their conscience. Perhaps, deep within, a little selfishness still remains that cannot be erased.

Is that just how human nature is? Whether originally good or originally evil, what's the need to get to the root of it. We just need to keep to our own duty, hold up our own piece of sky, be worthy of this fickle conscience. As for the rest, let heaven judge, let history prove my innocence.