Annoyed

I wake from sleep and half the day is already gone. Mood, for no reason, is irritable; the urge to fly far away grows stronger, only hoping the weather will get colder day by day, not knowing what to do the next moment. I tell myself to let everything go, tell myself to be brave and move forward, but I never expected that the "self" doing the persuading and the "self" being persuaded fall together. I begin to think about escaping, not knowing what to escape from, with no great-souled personality, thinking that my actions have nothing to do with courage. A family-decision shapes destiny, erasing all my faults. So the days can be this boring—it's practically despair. I stare blankly at the sky outside, count the falling leaves, and still cannot feel the touch of winter. Things develop more and more unexpectedly each time, the scales of life tilt rapidly; I can see the result, but I cannot control the downward force. Really, I can do nothing; I am a useless insect, for whom even living is a shame. I muddle through, only hoping that one day I'll break out of the cocoon as a butterfly, to give life an account. Whose tool am I, gathering pollen and brewing nectar for whom? Who feeds on life, and who feeds on death? Whether I turn left or right, it's the same fate—why struggle, why run? God says there are ten thousand stars in the sky; record the trajectory of each one, and you will never again know pain. Every night I count until very late, and when I have recorded nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine, the last one becomes a shooting star, carrying my hope, falling together into an ill-fated place. No one is at fault—why must it be a destined-to-fail ending. Perhaps tomorrow, the sun will be brilliant, baking away all my shadows, and I too will fly freely like the wind. I am a candle with faint light; under the sun, only a pale onlooker remains. Once again I write down my mood, clear as water, a tear in the Buddha's eye—that is helpless compassion.