呵,稍微有点长.
Will he still cry buckets of remorseful tears, after many and many years, perhaps on a raining evening, when he recalls the journey to Henan he's made at the age of twenty? He can hardly forget sitting there alone in a tiny hotel. He looked into the blank mirror before him and wiped softly the tears in his eyes. Then he saw himself in the mirrow: a nameless, hoary-heaed man with a sallow face. No one can ever defy time: if time runs backwards into the years, we'd still see the signs of youth were once so vivided written on his face. But now, what's happened in the passage of time only leaves us a fleeting glance. Years and years eclipsed upon generations after generations, and then, one brilliant face is brought forward to our eyes by the howling winds of eternity, and became an emblem for the sorrows of time.
He still remembers the days spent on the streets of Shangqiu City where no one knew him nor did any one care about him. He walked listlessly on days and nights.
The tiny city is situated on North China Plain. It's suqare-shaped but poorly maintained, garbages were seen in every corner.
When he realized that what had met his eyes were poles apart from what he had dreamed of, he embarked on a spiritual journey to get his soul hardened.
In the Mangshan Scenic Park, he met a maintenance granny who offered a special offer: taking a free ride together with her on her way home. His emotions were easily touched by the favor.
He visited the Iron Pagoda Park of Kaifeng City on a raining evening. At the moment all the visitors had left, leaving him alone to stare at the vacant swing. The swing drfited slightly in the gentle evening wind, just like him drifting in the whirls of life. Pains crept on his mind, he felt like gathering all the grass dews under his feet to shower on his burning mental sores.
With the passage of years of time, he had been well acquainted with loneliness: walking alone, dining alone, and even travelling alone. However, he still couldn't suffer the loneliness and pains.
When he once again looked at the girl's photo that he had examined for numerous times, he was reminiscent of what he felt half a year ago when he first received this photo: the girl was not good-looking. But why, then, he defied all difficulties to get on the train heading for Henan? Simply because he needed an outlet to release the feelings that he had supressed for years? What's the reason: in the name of love, in the pursuit of youth, or in the excuse of being yong? Now it does not necessary for him to get a definite answer. Youth is only sparkling when one is young. No matter shine or rain, no matter whether there will eventually be a rainbow for him, at least he once tried fearlessly to sparkle!
He would still walk with ease at spring time in the forest to enjoy morning bird songs. He would still sit in summer at noon-time under luxuriant trees with a tea at hand. He would still stand alone in his courtyard where autumn leaves flutter to fall. He would still recall and weep on the past in his cold cottage at winter time.
Time plays different pieces of music in different reasons. What he does is to stay silent against the vast expanse of solitude. The mist of spring can not drown him, the boiling hot of summer can not deter him, the golden dusky sun rays can not distract him, and the boundless snow fall in winter can not dazzle him. All the seasons are the pulsations of time which he can grasp and feel, and comprehend the mellowness contained within.
She's left, left with the last leaf on his mind.
He is also leaving, but he'll take all the autumn leaves with him.
Boiling tears sizzle against cold rain drops. The fury in his blood can not longer stay harnessed. In the heart-broken cries and rain-striken dusks, he is forever lost in sad memories.
He feels as if he's returned back to his 18th birthday. By then he had suspended his studies for several months. The air of late April still made him shiver from time to time. He was sitting alone in his tiny room, waiting for the footnotes of mid-night. Each single minute tortured him with endless waiting. Although his parents prepared him a delcious feast on that day, but at midnight he still left an awkward lyric secretly on a piece of paper:
The bell strikes midnight
Sound and fury no longer exist
I carefully taste this moment of mine
My tears fall in a thousand drops,
alighting the multi-colored birthday cake before my eyes