The Confession of an Ancient Tree Under the Moon

     I am a tree, my roots deep into the soil, deep into the darkness, deep into the deepest abyss!

    I plunge into the terrifying void of darkness, and through this I elevate myself; how I yearn for the height of the stars!
    Yet, my efforts will surely be in vain, the stars I touch will surely fall, and the higher I rise, the more indescribable the cold and emptiness I feel.
    Even the understanding moon mocks me with its pale light.
    Now, I am utterly despondent, yet I still stretch out my yearning hand to the heavens.
    What am I praying for? I am praying for dark clouds, I am praying for lightning!
    For I know that only lightning can save me.
    Countless sleepless nights, I have imagined countless times lightning descending upon me.
    That terrifying lightning tightly binds me, destroys me, ignites me.
    And I relish it all, relish being ignited, for then, what inspiration, what passion, will burst forth from my rusty mind and soul!
    But why has my lightning not come? Is it because I am not tall enough? Then I will delve deeper into the darkness, to the very end of eternity!
    Behold! What is that, the cloud that strolls noblely in the darkness! How different she is, her noble blackness in harmony with the truth of this sky, this world!
    She comes, with noble steps.
    She comes, and great tranquility descends, true tranquility!
    She comes, gazing upon me with eternal eyes, caressing my brow with lightning.
    This current, this powerful spark of will, coils around me, the dead spirit is resurrected, a million times stronger than ever before!
    This spirit, this ultimate eternity, is me responding to her immortality with my own!
    Then I die, dying in the embrace of eternity, becoming a part of eternity.
    But only reason dies; the high voltage makes me eternal, frees me, maddens me, and I will, in immortality, look down upon the nothingness of life with the eternity of death.
    But none of this happens; the moon still casts its mocking gaze upon me.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Never try to stop someone who wants to leave.

      You must understand: you can't keep someone who wants to leave, you can't wake someone who's pretending to sleep, and you can't move someone who doesn't love you. If he misses you, he'll contact you; if he wants you, he'll say so; if he cares about you, his true feelings will show; if none of these things happen, then you don't need to bother with him. Actually, you can sense who likes you; you can also sense who you like, whether they love you back, and whether they care. Sometimes, as smart as you are, your foolishness lies in habitually deceiving yourself. You made promises you shouldn't have made, and persisted in things that weren't necessary.     Love can't be forced. Let go of those who can't enter your heart; turn back from worlds you can't enter. If the tea is cold, don't add more water; it won't taste the same. If someone leaves, don't try to keep them; it won't feel the same. If the love is gone, don...
Read more

Even if they are not relatives, they can still be close.

      There is a kind of touching feeling called warmth.     It was a low, dilapidated, and neglected Russian-style house, less than 20 square meters, built in the 1950s. The house was dark and damp, the walls were cracked and loose, and the furnishings were tattered. The only slightly modern element was a black-and-white television with a blurry image, which had been its companion for the rest of its life. Xu Fengying, 92 years old this year, lived in this house, as old as herself. Twenty years ago, her husband passed away, and without children, she struggled to survive on a meager monthly allowance of 300 yuan.     To provide for this lonely elderly woman, Wang Fenglan, a kind neighbor living less than 100 meters away, offered her a helping hand. In the freezing winter, she helped the elderly woman light the stove for warmth; in the rainy summer, she helped repair her house; when her clothes were dirty, she washed them; ...
Read more

Bookmarks of Time

  　　Not far from home, there's a small river covered in lush grass. 　　In my childhood, I loved to read by its banks. In the early morning, the mist would bathe the river in a dreamlike glow. I would be bathed in the morning light, splashing through the water, finding a small stone to sit on. Holding a book, I would be completely content. When I grew tired, I would lie down, watching the pale blue morning mist gently kiss the river, listening to the soft, mysterious whispers of nature. I would close my eyes, take a deep breath, and the fragrance of rice, flowers, and the fresh scent of earth would permeate my very being. A gentle breeze would pass by, and a few petals would drift down onto my warm cheek, too delicate to brush away. 　　Suddenly, a boy's figure would come into my view. 　　He always seemed to happen to be there when I was reading. The occasional startled birdsong would tell me he was coming. His footsteps would grow closer, striking a chord in my heart. Strangely, my...
Read more