Time flows like the moon and wind, advancing with an unchanging pace, neither rushing nor slowing, passing through springs, autumns, winters, and summers, and through days of clear skies and overcast clouds. Looking back, the days that have passed are like a swirling kaleidoscope; inadvertently, they shake out patterns that cannot be imitated, and every gathering and parting, every joy and sorrow, has become a limited edition. Thus, I realize that youth is a one-way bus; it cannot return, and there are no stops along the way.
The morning bell and evening drum urge me to hoist the sails for a distant voyage, yet my heart is like a leaf clinging to its old branch, hesitating in the wind of yesterday, reluctant to let go. I know I should not delay the journey, yet I cannot break free from the bonds of emotion, nor can I seal everything that has been in the castle of memory, locking the doors again. Every day, I walk through the setting sun and rising moon, as if standing in a clear river. That clear water is my life, which I possess and will possess only once. Yet, too often, I stand in the water, allowing the water from upstream to flow past me and become downstream water, allowing the future to flow through my present and become the past. Because I am too immersed in yesterday, I have lost today and tomorrow, ending up with nothing.
I often imagine that when spring blossoms and autumn fruits have both become history, and I sit in the memory of yesterday with snow covering my head, chewing on the stories hidden in every wrinkle on my face, what kind of mindset would that be? One should know enough to believe less, yet I am still fooled again and again by the fairy tale of "The Boy Who Cried Wolf"; one should love spring more after walking through winter, yet I still linger in the fairy tale of "The Snow Child." The path traveled seems to be a circle; after a long journey, I return to the starting point. Thus, much of the time, I am doing the same thing: searching for a goal.
In the dim and dark, I once meditated deeply and finally deciphered that the simplest cycle of grass withering and blooming is a profound mystery; it is an intuitive lesson of life: Flowers can bloom red only once, and grass can be green for only one year. Time flows on like this; the hazy past has drifted away with the seasonal winds, so why struggle to pursue and recall it? The train of youth carries countless passengers; no one can predict the encounters along the way, and no one can return to the point where they boarded. Since there is no other choice, let me crush the past disappointments and satisfactions on the steel rails of time, then open the doors and windows, bathed in fresh air and sunlight, to welcome a new journey. Because I now know that youth is a one-way bus; it cannot return, and there are no stops.
