<To be, or not to be>

After you've been gone for so many years, sometimes I'm lying in bed looking at the ceiling and I'll see you.

The lost white ceiling is mottled with the afterimages of the years, and the repeated memories cannot be wiped clean. You are in it, you are always there.

From time to time I am accused of me, of seeing you all the time. Those helpless good intentions began to sound like accusations against the children who did not pass the test well. After listening for a long time, they understood it. They were worrying about me, and they were helpless against my worries, and the impatience that followed. . I understand, so I don't mention you anymore, including the beautiful you and the not-so-perfect you, all sealed up.

But you're always there, playing over and over on the ceiling when I'm alone, but the sound is off, well, don't let anyone know, secretly miss healing, stop crying, watching, and not talking.

Gradually, the miss drifted far away, and it took a finger to count how far it was. Every day, I think of you gone for another year, another year. I remember your conversations with me, those frowning crying and laughing, but I can't see you, it's not just my vision that's blurred, your appearance is just as blurry in my memory. How did that happen? Every afternoon or night, when I look at the ceiling, those blurred figures are clearly you, but I can't see clearly.

In fact, you are gone, all I see is myself. After you passed by, I have a shadow in my heart.

Don't talk to others, I know you are gone, why do you want others to remind me and prove it to me?

I know you're gone, I know. Although you are gone, although you can't say it, Dad loves you. He still draws your shadow on the ceiling at the edge of the dream, and speaks softly to the back left after you left.