Uneasy daily life

Before I knew it, I had developed a hobby of writing poetry. Whether it's poetry or lyrics, I like to choose the ones with the most words.

It's too much trouble to show it to others, so I write it all down in a notebook. Occasionally, I pick out the rhymes and consider the tones, which helps to relieve my anxiety.

"I might even become a poet."

I thought to myself with a smug satisfaction.

And so, with the elation of successfully showing off, he happily wrote her a farewell poem.

How stupid.

Chapter Twenty-Five: Brocade Zither

As a voice spoke to itself, mocking, reminiscing, and sighing, the screen gradually dimmed.

The audience was whispering to each other.

"The female lead is quite pretty this time... right?"

"I couldn't see clearly, I only knew she had long, straight black hair. When the female lead appeared on the screen, I thought I wasn't wearing my glasses."

"This is so blurry, but only the female lead is blurry; the others are still visible, although they don't get much screen time..."

"Although the scenes and story are full of flaws, Bai Ying's acting skills and monologue recitation are still on point."

"The next scene is here... a chat interface?"

What happened next?

The college entrance exam was here, it's over, I've graduated, I'm going home.

And what about her?

[During the college entrance exam, my mom, who had never heard of chocolate as an energy booster, made me buy a huge pile. I even gave her some during the exam, but I don't remember anything after that, since it was so many years ago.]

Haven't you contacted me at all in all these years?

[I've already deleted you as a friend.]

【ah? Why? 】

[Maybe it was when she posted the poem I wrote for her on her WeChat Moments, and I deleted it in a fit of anger? Maybe we had an argument while chatting online, and I deleted it in a fit of anger? Or maybe I don't know what I did to upset her, and she deleted me? I can't remember very well, it must have been in high school.]

【Huh? Is it really that serious?】

[That happened so many years ago, I can't even remember what I was thinking; it must have been some insignificant reasons.]

What do you remember her doing?

You can't remember when you have time, and you can't remember when you do.

[Tsk tsk, I didn't realize you were such a romantic.]

[Not really. When I was in school, I didn't realize that it was called liking someone. By the time I realized it, it was too late.]

[Tsk tsk, I didn't realize your dating experience was less than that of an elementary school student.]

The present is the present, and the past is the past. We're about the same age, right? Don't you know what you were thinking back then?

Indeed, my mind is completely focused on studying.

Don't try to justify it; it's clearly a holiday, homework, exams, parents, allowance, playtime, and snacks.

[If we don't mention this, what about the classmates' group? What about everyone else?]

Do you know how much housing prices were ten years ago? Do you know how many years it's been since the internet became widespread and information exploded? My family only bought me my first cell phone when I went to university, and back then I could only sneak into my dad's office to go online.

There's nothing I can do. You deserve it.

So, it happened so many years ago, there's hardly any clear narrative. What can you possibly write about? Just let readers read about a stupid, stupid youthful tragedy, curse the protagonist as an idiot, and then curse me as an idiot?

Okay, so have you figured out how you're going to submit the manuscript to me?

[Editor! Please give me a few more days! I've been staying up so late I'm completely out of it, my mind is blank, I have no appetite, and I can't sleep at all!]

[Screw you! Haven't I become ill from staying up all night, losing all my ideas, having no appetite, and being unable to sleep?! Anyway, you still have to submit the manuscript!]

Please!

I'm begging you!

……

As the evening glow fades and the moon's light dims, my thoughts linger. Where can Chang'e find the elixir of immortality? Let my sorrowful heart be shared with the moon!

Instead of wasting time pondering your nonsensical poems, you should hurry up and write your manuscript! If you delay any longer, I'll punish you in the name of the moon!

"Ugh……"

click!

hiss--

call……

I scratched my still-thick hair and suddenly realized my hand was covered in dandruff. Was it time to take a shower? I turned my head and found the screen was still blank. I thought I'd better keep thinking about it.

I haven't figured anything out yet, time to sleep.

“%＃…………＃@！￥……＃￥￥@￥……”

She was in a daze, and it was unclear where she was or what she was saying.

I woke up somewhat groggily, subconsciously rubbed my eyes, and looked at the blanket that had been kicked aside. I suddenly realized that the weather had gotten warmer.

Winter is over? Is it spring now?

This year is... speaking of which... what year did I graduate?

I can't remember.

It seems like a short time has passed since graduation, a short time has passed since high school and university, and a short time has passed since birth.

The more time you spend, the faster it seems to pass...

I patted my forehead and started looking for my graduation photos from back then... Oh right, and the postcard she gave me when I graduated from junior high school, I should have kept it safe.

There was no cabinet, no document bag, and no unopened luggage.

After wandering around the house for a long time, I had to admit that those things were lost.

Maybe it was during a move, or maybe it was during a room tidying up.

People can even lose themselves, let alone those objects.

I was fiddling with the chat software somewhat blankly when a sudden thought struck me: I wanted to find traces of my former classmates. I didn't have many friends on my account, mostly from university, and we hadn't kept in touch since graduation. I didn't really want to contact them; I just wanted to take a look.

After graduation, it seems like everyone posts less on WeChat Moments. Occasionally, some people post travel photos, some share pictures of couples being affectionate, and some post about getting married or having children, but it's all very brief and infrequent.

Some names are still remembered, while others are no longer part of our memories.

Write a poem.

As night falls and sleep eludes me, memories flood back; suddenly, I realize winter is over and spring is here again. Youth is like a dream, fleeting in its wake; thoughts linger like scissors, ever-present in the late hours.

Writing poetry is like making dumplings for a dish of vinegar. Your feelings are only enough to brew a couple of lines of vinegar, and the rest of the dumplings are just made up and revised over time.

I put the poems I had written aside, neither caring about them nor keeping them.

I have always had a complex feeling about my own creations, whether they are poems or articles.

If it's lost, then it's lost; if it's forgotten, then it's forgotten. If it's neither lost nor forgotten, when you see it again after a few years, you'll feel that you were too stupid and naive, presumptuous, and that the whole thing was poorly written with no clear points.

Writing the manuscript yielded no results.

I suddenly remembered my dream last night, even though I don't know what it was about, I only know that I dreamt about her.

It's probably because I was talking about the past with someone, and what I thought about during the day naturally manifested in my dreams at night.

Maybe...maybe it's fate guiding us? Doesn't the occult often say that people have special abilities? Even about things in the future, it's possible to have some premonition, like the things I lost are definitely there, or I can meet certain people wherever I go.

Kidding.

However, if I lack inspiration, I might find some inspiration from my school days last year to help me with a few articles.

I finally set off.

By the way, after rummaging through some old things, I roughly figured out the timeline; it should be ten years since I graduated high school.

No more, no less, a full ten years—a very complete and meaningful number. Maybe that dream really was a bit mystical?

Kidding.

……

The noise in the movie theater gradually subsided.

It seems that the campus and youth at the beginning were just a dream, and only at this moment, when one is alone, thinking and feeling melancholy, is one truly living life.

I can't remember the time, I can't recall the past, I'm troubled by the present, and I'm indifferent to the future.

No matter how prosperous and flourishing it once was, times change, and the sun and stars shift, everything will eventually decay and fall into ruin.

Now that things have come to this, the overwhelming feeling of being alone is overwhelming.

……

[Paid ¥44.41]

Forty-four dollars and forty-one cents, a price that has faded into the past.

Although we live in the same city, I've never been back since graduation, and this is the first time I've known the price of a trip there.

I stood at the school gate, looking at the high school I was going to attend.

Aside from some emotions I stirred up myself, I didn't feel much nostalgia—after all, what's there to miss about the days of studying?

Day after day, year after year, for an ambiguous goal, we make efforts that we can only look back on and forget, and after burning inexplicably, we return to this ordinary world.

I don't really miss that period of time; I just miss the people in it and the person I was back then.

However, it's not easy to write down these feelings, firstly because they're hard to express clearly, and secondly because they don't conform to mainstream opinion.

I walked into the school with a composed expression.

Fortunately, it was Saturday, and I looked like a decent person, so the security guard only glanced at me and didn't ask any questions.

Has the school's running track been changed? It used to be red, but now it's blue.

The floor is still clean and new, showing no signs of age, but for stone, ten years is a short time.

There's a curtain hanging outside the toilet? It wasn't there before.

Speaking of which classroom I was in when I was in school? Which floor and which classroom was it?

Speaking of which, was I in Class 3 or Class 7? Was I in Class 7 in junior high and Class 3 in senior high? It doesn't seem so. I remember being reassigned to different classes a few times based on academic performance, so I can't even remember which class I was in when I graduated.

Although the classroom was empty, the books piled on the desks and inside the desks, and the backpacks hanging directly on the chairs, all looked just like they did in my memory, making me wonder if ten years had passed.

Grade 11 Class 1, Grade 11 Class 2, Grade 11... Hmm? How did it jump directly to Grade 11 Class 4? What about Class 3?

I went up and down the stairs, searching and taking pictures every now and then, but I still couldn't find the location of Class 3. I couldn't understand how the classroom layout was arranged now. But even if I figured it out, Class 3 now is not the same as Class 3 before.

Finding it wouldn't be of much use.

I just want to have a goal so that I can wander through my memories and try to feel the melancholy of writing something, instead of appearing idle and just going through the motions.

But the empty school, like empty memories, only brings air when you climb up and down searching.

Luckily, I came alone. If I had run into an old classmate, I probably wouldn't have recognized him, which would have made the atmosphere extremely awkward.

Forget it.

It's like forcing myself to write new words to express my sorrow; I can't find a single spark of creative inspiration.

Leaving the teaching building, I walked somewhat listlessly to the playground and lit a cigarette.

Speaking of which, back when we graduated, everyone seemed to be throwing books around like a game, and I got caught up in it too, tossing my books around. I wonder if students these days still do that. Maybe schools are becoming stricter and have banned this uncivilized behavior of throwing books... I wonder if I can use this as material to write something about.

"Sir, smoking is prohibited on campus. Please go outside to smoke."

The security guard shouted from the edge of the playground.

"Row."

……

"A movie with only Shiro...?" Yui Yuigahama looked at the film crew and the white figure being heavily scrutinized by the cameras, and asked with some surprise, "Is all the voiceover done in post-production?"