Release

Snow has come again, without my noticing. I check in early in the morning, face the flying snow, tread on the fallen snow, and my eyes are full of melting snow.

This is a world of snow—white, noisy, silent, carrying a touch of sadness and loneliness.

I think of Lao Lang's "Lian Lian Feng Chen" and that young man in white, without an umbrella; that snow-blown dusk; that farewell covered by snow...

I wore too few clothes, a bit cold, but it felt good.

But what isn't a feeling? Truth doesn't really exist; there is only a direction, a vague one, a direction to be explored only by feeling.

The snow melted, melting into my palm. I killed a flake of snow. But so much snow still falls as before, never stopping, and so much still falls into my palm, melting, then disappearing.

I decide the snow's fate—I curl my hand, wear a thicker glove, and the snow will fall to the ground, dying naturally.

Isn't a person's life just like this?

We gather life force, are born, fall without reason... or fly, or fall, or melt. Just walking forward, we only want that white world. Yearning for the sun, warm, we watch ourselves vanish bit by bit, with tears.

May it be that all darkness is our umbrella, from that distant sky in the cold winter. Fate is just the warmth of another world, nothing to do with me, not to be attached to.

Snowflakes, fly freely. When lonely, sing a song. Perhaps in another world, in that warm place, there will be a person just as lonely, watching you, listening to your song and dancing.