Absent

It feels like a dream from another life, carrying the bittersweet beauty of the Liang-Shan butterfly legend, and the debts of a former self, step by step into my life. Like a cup of light tea—slightly bitter, with a hint of coolness—it leaves an endless aftertaste, standing in for me on languid afternoons when the sunflowers are in full bloom, blocking out the stifling weariness. Perhaps it is a song—Lao Lang's "Bandit of Love"—and as he sings it, the photographs have long since burned to ash, but those memories refuse to be lit. The sunlight is beautiful, because once in its bright warmth you walked through, with a smile that lingered long after you were gone. Flowers bloom for only a single season, so they know to leave those who admire them with the ache of a glory that has already passed; even so, how many truly love flowers? Perhaps only the butterflies in Su Shi's poetry, alongside the flowers, watch the green turn to red on the branches. Yet what you left behind is not regret—there is no room for regret—only vast, unending intoxication. I thought the sea's transformation was a momentary impulse, not understanding that the ending is still the ends of the earth; the helplessness lodged in sighs, though, has let me see through the rising wind and clouds. Perhaps it was only a few thousandths of a probability that let two strangers like us meet again, beginning to find more reasons to prop up the tall empty house deep in the soul, beginning to fall silent, overreaching, borrowing trouble from imagined woes. Among all those fantasies, your smile is the ancient arrow that keeps me forever in the wound of the dream. When the flowers bloom once more, I still don't understand why it is still the same loneliness and nobility as the first meeting—the tender place imagined in my mind shatters like a plain white vase. If the weather turns overcast, I don't know how to while away the dim hours, so I let all the great and the small become a thread of fragrance, imagining you in rapture. This kind of life is unbearable, and another is out of reach. I really don't know how many times Kafka whispered that sentence, casting off every responsibility, curling up in a corner, struggling between life and death. I stand at the crest of the wind, imagining another world of powdered flowers and tea; after a long while, I still don't know what to make of it. I only wish to give up tomorrow, and sow the grievances of this life. The stronger a person is, the more fragile they are; the strongest at the extreme is the most fragile at the extreme. The fragile person, sensitive, pours all their bitterness onto the pillow as quiet tears. Dusk is when one is most sensitive, and when the true night arrives, keeping watch in the heavy blackness, in the seeing-through of all things as nothing—yet a vague sorrow always follows close on a heavy sigh. The setting sun, the forest, a light breeze, a fine rain—I look back across the clouds of the past, still remembering the moment we looked at each other. The ancient moon, worn by the ages, cannot make out your smile; the chill lingers on, and I wonder if you, far away, are still well. The days I have left keep going; the streets and alleys I have walked still repeat; I have walked through wind and rain, yet I cannot walk out of your story. The overcast sky, like the night I miss you, weaves a net to hold a forever-long dream, leaving a tiny gap to peek at the karma of a past life. One life of hollow, gorgeous days, the reckless, restless years, unable to grasp the sorrow at the passing of the evening breeze—a wisp of cooking smoke, melancholy and desolation. The world is vast; where is your next resting place. Singing, laughter, every sound reaches the ear—how much longing, how much sorrow. On the days I miss you, I taste a cup of clear spring, drink winter snow and spring dew, sing a song aloud, the wolf-hair brush like a sword. Before the flowers and under the moon, insects chirp and birds sing; lingering on, I wake to find it was a dream. The blade of youth gleams cold, cutting off my own head; knowing the thunder roars and the rain howls, I wave a sleeve and say farewell. I raise my head and tears stream down. The melody of youth comes and goes, comes again as it goes, sounding hesitant—then gone. Youth squanders feelings, but in an unguarded moment, it imprints you on my mind. Perhaps this life I am a guest; I still look back—five hundred years from now, grant me one more farewell.