Yearning for the Sky

 I imagine

the cool of a midsummer night. I stroll through the open fields, listening to the gentle rustling of the breeze. I feel as if I can sense musical notes being blown about, drifting and falling, guided by hyacinths, carried into the dreamland of a wanderer. I know that it is a gentle harbor in the real world, a haven from the wandering souls of dreams. Where there is love, warmth, and hope, it will eventually become a sacred paradise, where holy angels will be on duty.

The croaking of frogs fills the air, and the night seems shrouded in mist, obscuring the brilliant starry sky, making it dim. A strange, chilling feeling creeps in from outside the window, suffocating me, making me tremble. At this moment, I yearn even more for the pure blue sky, for the white clouds dancing like willow catkins, for the fiery sunset.

The clouds are as tender as a baby's cheek, their tenderness shimmering with an orange-yellow glow—a trace of the first stirrings of life, a testament to the passage of time. Though storms and torrential rains may taint them, obscuring their true nature, their flawless perfection remains undiminished. Every day, the sky stages a series of films, each unique yet remarkably similar, seemingly a thousand faces, yet in reality, a unified whole. What unfolds again and again is nothing but the fleeting nature of life.

To dream of traversing millennia, searching for traces of love in a past life, seeking lost sighs, slumbering forever in a previous existence—but what a luxurious thought, what an absurd pretext! Life is inherently impermanent; how can it withstand such endless repetition?

I pluck two willow branches and place them in a clean vase, not for their vibrant beauty, but so that they may sprout a beautiful dream within, like preserving a fleeting childlike heart—all just illusions in the end. In the fleeting moment when two willow buds intertwine, everything is already predestined. Though their paths cross, they cannot become kindred spirits or complement each other—a great regret in this world.

The morning's clamor fades away, and the auspicious dawn hangs gently among the branches, like a red ribbon, encircling every wisp of yesterday's dust and illuminating each new dawn's echo. Having experienced the alternation of day and night, I yearn even more for the sky's splendor, the clouds' purity, the preciousness of time, and the pure blue of dreams.