Uneasy daily life

"I guess so. Although it's a film about one person, it's also a film about everyone." Hachiman Hikigaya remarked with some emotion, "The captain's acting seems even better today. Even just watching him walk without making a sound, sometimes stopping, sometimes indifferent, sometimes quickening his pace, it just has a certain..."

Houtarou Oreki accurately described it: "His feeling of walking alone in his memories... However, everyone can only walk alone in their memories."

“Uncle Bai…” Chitanda Eru frowned, “Something’s strange?”

Yukino Yukinoshita watched from afar, her gaze complex, and a hint of worry creeping into her eyes.

Is this Xiao Yun's story?

Or is it a story written by Bai Jun?

Or is Haku-kun depicting Yukino under the snow?

But I'm not that lonely person anymore...

Surrounded by the film crew's cameras, Bai Ying turned towards the school gate.

……

I left the school, strolled outside, and casually sat on a safety post. Behind me was the school, and outside was a bustling street.

Still no inspiration. No wonder novels and articles are all lies.

Where do all these nostalgic reflections on youth come from? These are creations made for the sake of creation, things that are just occasional thoughts, then pretending to be moved, written to fool others and fool oneself.

Walking is tiring, whether it's the road we've traveled in the past or the road we're on now.

Hiss—whoosh…

Watching the strangers come and go, he quickly finished his cigarette.

Should I go back? But going back would just mean more deep thought... Never mind, I'll sit here a little longer.

I lit another cigarette and gazed aimlessly at the street, the sky, pedestrians, vehicles, shops, and traffic lights.

Hiss—whoosh…

Do I look like I'm waiting for someone? Maybe, how stupid of me.

You suddenly had the idea to go back to your old school alone, without making plans with anyone or notifying anyone. Who would know you were coming back to visit? Even if they did know, who would actually come to see you? Everyone just happened to get together when they were studying. Life has long since separated everyone's connections, and no one can go back to their past. It's better to cherish the memories than to say goodbye.

Do I look like I'm waiting for her? Maybe, how stupid of me.

It's too late, it's already too late. A whole ten years have passed, and you've almost forgotten about her. How can it be too late? Even if we take a step back and assume there's some mystery to your dream, and you really do meet her, what then? Will you recognize her? Even if you do, will she remember you? Even if she's still the same girl from back then, such a wonderful girl, doesn't she have a boyfriend? Or is she already married with children?

You know very well that memory is a processing of the past, and the weights on each side are different. They cannot be weighed equally on a scale; there will be far too many inconsistencies.

You don't know her from the past, nor do you know her now. You're just trying to relieve your loneliness and pretending to be affectionate. In other words, you're narcissistic.

Your 'she' is a depiction of memory, a reflection of yourself, a false rhetoric, the kind of white moonlight you know.

It can be observed, cherished, remembered, and pondered, but it cannot be visited, for to visit it will lead to ruin, and ruin will lead to emptiness.

Memories are the most distant things; once you try to catch up with them, they will fade away.

You never chase after them, you shouldn't have, and you shouldn't have chased after them.

After all, it was just a soap bubble, reflecting the past, dazzling and brilliant before your eyes, but once you try to grasp it—

Now, you still have memories and nostalgia; if you try to chase after them, they'll be gone.

Hiss—whoosh…

I lit another cigarette.

Still no inspiration, and I haven't seen anyone. I'll just write something to buy myself some time.

First, find a poetic title that matches the sour feeling in your heart, then figure out how to use words and phrases to knead the dough, rhymes to season it, tones and rhythms to fill the filling, and wrap up a plate of dumplings that look good.

Winter ends, spring begins, and all sounds awaken. A dream fades like waking, the dream shattered like a sieve. Heartless, I wander aimlessly. I fear to see anyone, I fear to see anyone.

How can one express their feelings by composing poetry outside the door? Reason is easy to understand, but the word "emotion" is difficult to dissect. A sentimental person laughs at their own strange behavior. No one comes, no one comes.

Although there are too many identical characters, making it less aesthetically pleasing and lacking in literary flair, and the tones are irregular, that's just how vinegar is, isn't it?

Fortunately, my creative principle is to make do. As long as I've had enough fun, I don't care about things like tonal patterns and parallelism.

Hiss—whoosh…

I looked at the streets outside the school. Perhaps because it was near the school, I could occasionally see people who were obviously students. I think I'm old enough to be called "uncle" now.

I haven't interacted much with younger people, so I don't know how they perceive me. If I look in the mirror, I honestly can't tell how old I am, haha.

You've finished your cigarette, time to go.

I stood up, took a few steps, stopped, and then walked back to sit on the safety post.

Let me write another one, and challenge myself to write the regulated verse that I used to love back then.

Later, I stopped liking to write regulated verse. There were too many characters, the parallelism was too strict, the tones and rhymes were not free to be used as I pleased, and I still had to suppress the level tone.

Making these dumplings is such a hassle, it's really tough on a lazy person like me.

Hiss—whoosh…

It's troublesome. The requirement for parallelism is troublesome. Using allusions would be simpler, but finding suitable allusions is troublesome. I really admire the memory of the ancients... Fortunately, mobile networks are now advanced. Whether it's looking up synonyms or allusions, it's much simpler than trying to find them in my student days.

Hmm? If I had to say, the poems and lyrics of the ancients, if placed in the present day, would certainly be considered allusions, especially the various classical poems that are required reading for high school students, which are practically allusions among allusions—they'll be on the college entrance exam, you know.

What about climbing high to reflect on the past, or Li Bai composing poems about Du Fu? These are all easy to come by. Recently, boomerangs have become popular, and the internet is calling it the "Year One of Boomerangs." If we use classical Chinese poems from high school to write about it, we can better highlight the feeling of boomerangs, right?

I came up with a solution: I started searching through the classical poems required for high school students. I would glance at them and look for poems with suitable tonal patterns and authors, preferably those that expressed a sense of sadness and remembrance.

锦瑟

Li Shangyin

Jinse has no end in fifty strings, a string of thoughts and a string of years.

Zhuangzi dreamt he was a butterfly, and the Emperor Wang's heart was entrusted to the cuckoo.

The moon shines brightly over the vast sea, pearls seem to weep; the jade of Lantian warms in the sun, smoke rises from it.

This feeling can only be cherished in retrospect, for at the time it was already a regret.

……

There's no need to think about what emotions the author expressed; it's all your own feelings.

Back then, these were easy questions; now they're life-threatening.

It truly lives up to its name as the Boomerang Calendar.

I stubbed out my cigarette, stared blankly at my phone, tapping and swiping occasionally. Every time my finger touched the screen, it felt like touching the past.

Time transforms into an indestructible screen, depicting those true and false memories. Even if you desperately want to punch it in anger, you can't touch what's on the screen; all you get is a mess of fragments.

Yes, why are those poets always so emotional, leaving behind so many poems and essays that people find it agonizing to memorize them?

Poets, lyricists, and writers are not legends, fairy tales, novels, or stories; they are living, breathing people who actually existed.

Seeing how many strings a zither has makes one think about how many years have passed. One sighs because life is like a dream, impermanent and fleeting. One regrets the mistakes of the past, and recalls those beautiful things, beautiful people, and beautiful moments. When one tries to recall these past feelings, one finds that they have all become blurred and unclear, leaving only melancholy and confusion, and a sigh.

Even if we meet again, what difference will it make? How much joy and sorrow, how many fleeting moments of life, how many years of trials and tribulations would it take to piece together ten years of memories? I was never by her side, and our past is but a few scattered memories; how can we reconnect? Yet, my heart still lingers with such melancholy.

The years of triumph and despair pass by, and who can control their own joys and sorrows?

Through the ages, we share the same moon, expressing our thoughts; we gaze towards the ends of the earth, remembering our parting.

People of the past and present, you, me, and others, are all the same kind of people.

I write very fast, but I want to write slowly, but no one can control their mood.

Joy, sorrow, anger, and happiness are all distinct; everyone has tasted them, but they are no longer willing to speak of them, whether by hiding them, denying them, refusing them, or remaining silent, or perhaps they have simply forgotten about them.

I don't have the ability to want to like anyone, should like anyone, can like anyone, or simply like anyone.

What I love may not be the person, but the white moonlight, the years, and the memories.

But I only like her, I just like her, I still like her, I will always like her.

My parents taught me how to grow up, school taught me how to study, society taught me how to survive, and others taught me how to keep my distance...

Unfortunately, I'm still as young as I was, not knowing how to love someone, nor how to be loved by someone.

If all that's left is to reminisce, then let it be; it's better than having no worries at all.

Ten years have passed since our last meeting, and six years have gone by without a trace.

[I've intentionally sought out and pondered its meaning, but without the heart to wander, I've let the waves carry me away.]

[Drips of ink stain the sentimental traveler; scrolls of poetry bear witness to the shared journey of souls.]

[In my youthful folly, I tossed aside the zither; now I realize that joy and sorrow are beyond my control.]

Ah... so it turns out that joy and sorrow are beyond our control...

I'm so awesome, haha.

I slowly let out a sigh of relief, and looked up at the street leading to the school. It seemed unchanged, perhaps quite a bit of time had passed.

Should we give this poem a title? I don't usually give titles to poems...

Behind me was the school, and I stared blankly ahead—the street, the sky, pedestrians, vehicles, shops, and traffic lights.

Forget it, forget it.

I am still mostly afraid, afraid that time will be like a knife, cutting away my youth, and that fate will ebb away, leaving only desolation.

I tapped the screen to save the poem I had written, and then I stood up, my legs feeling a little numb.

Let's go, let's go.

"Hey—you..."

……

The screen dimmed, and the closing credits slowly rose.

The audience fell silent, as if waking from a dream.

No...that is...this is...but...

Hey!

Is the director a dog?! He's gone right there?!

Wait, there are also songs and melodies?

……

Filming has wrapped up smoothly. Some are planning to go home, some are taking the opportunity to get together, some are looking for a chance to meet up, and some are packing up equipment and props...

Outside the school gate, Bai Ying was still sitting on the safety post, quietly gazing at the street.

Inside the school gates, Yukino Yukinoshita gazed into the distance, her heart filled with uncertainty. She pondered repeatedly: was it Haku-kun's naturally superb acting, or had he transformed into someone else at that moment? Had he returned to his original form? Or perhaps…

Are you scared? Yukino Yukinoshita.

I fear the fickleness of human hearts, the illusions of life, the inevitable loneliness, and the inevitable decline of prosperity.

I……

"Um, Yukinoshita-san..."

Suddenly, an unfamiliar boy stood up from the crowd and opened his mouth as if to say something, but his voice was so soft that not only Yukino Yukinoshita couldn't hear him, but no one else could either.

Yukino Yukinoshita knew what he was saying, and she also knew what she wanted to say and what she was going to say.

There are probably quite a few people like that, after all, they think they're cute.

In the past, I was mostly indifferent. I never spoke of it, never came close, and never had a conversation with her. I only caught a glimpse of a captivating silhouette in myself, and then projected my imagination onto that silhouette, creating a 'Yukino Yukinoshita' that I liked, with prejudice and arrogance.

However, this is also a form of liking, after all, joy and sorrow are beyond our control.

"Thank you, and..."

Yukino Yukinoshita said softly, "Next time, remember to speak louder."

The boy smiled shyly, turned away embarrassedly, and hid in the crowd, where he was teased and joked about by his friends, blending into those youthful and unforgettable memories.

Next time, I hope you can meet someone you like again, and that you can love that person more loudly and sincerely, and learn how to love and be loved.

I should go and love the person I like.

If people's hearts are fickle, then I am also changing.

If the world is but a dream, let us awaken and sleep together.