Turbulent Times

Mysterious, ever-changing, those things we can't reach, like today's wind—the future, the unknowable, fate, and rebellion. A mournful tune—the vanished past cannot return.

Eternity is just those fleeting beliefs that deceive me, coax me into happiness, while deep within me, forever, I remain in an ancient time, a place of death where not even grass grows. I cannot appreciate many of the good things in life—that little bit of filth, constantly reminding me that my life is just a joke, a pointless waste. One could say life is for pleasure, for desire, and for the extensions of desire.

If a person depends too much on others, and one day all his friends betray him—how should he keep going? Can he even keep going?

Everything is an illusion, every act of obedience is flattery; from worse than beasts to beasts to not even as good as beasts; under the hypocritical shell, a stinking soul, a mask of false kindness, and behind-the-back finger-pointing. The damned weather follows suit, moody and uncertain; the earth trembles, shaking like a dog's head.

Reaching the end, I find that all smiles are deceitful, that giving is voluntary, unrelated to return, while the one holding your hand actually wants your life. Even I'm deceiving myself, even my own eyes are playing along—what can I still believe, what can I rely on, what can I take pride in, what actually belongs to me?

We're all wrong, actually. The tall are wrong for not being short, the fat for not being thin, the smart for not being dumb, the foolish for not being wise. And me—if I must say I'm wrong, I'm wrong for having a heart with no end and a body full of obstacles, knowing full well there'll be no result, yet still wanting to explore to the end. Actually, in this world there's more than one "me"—when "he" walks too fast, even if I can't catch up, I still want to be in a running posture. Knowing full well it brings only harm and no benefit, my heart is wavering, but my feet cannot stop. That's called striving. But in the end, a lifetime is only a few decades, and in the end it's all an empty dream. Why bother with it, why pursue, why think so much—useful, useless, aren't they all the same? When a person dies, they take nothing with them. What is true possession?

Yes, true possession—that distance, is it positive? Negative? Or zero? Does possession mean doing as you please? And not following your heart is independence—independently possessing, is that a kind of possession or a kind of independence?

I hope for a disaster, so that sympathy can still occupy me, with my original love and life—no longer a snowflake in winter, a form, a foolish self-righteousness.