2021/12/14〈The winter burning within〉

I've had this winter burning within. The cold, blade-like blizzard of blaze. This is what I felt when I had to walk through the windy street in this winter city. There is but one thing that I can manage to understand: there is nobody but me to walk through this. Through the winter and through the street.

As I grew up gradually, I gradually grew weary of it. Of growing up. Of growing up as a necessary procedure of life. And of life itself. Of the concept of living, of ever-growing and ever pursuing. The world seems to me but a gigantic mixture of needless needing and meaningless meaning.

There is but my melancholy and me. My shameless solitude to express myself. People breathe. I sigh instead. Yet I have no reason why. It is to me, only as natural as the impulse to sing, or to whistle. Or to dance to the music that encourages to do so.

It is the kind of music that sometimes reminds me of the past. The past that lives in my memory now, lives within me. And sometimes they do burn. Burn like the winter without. And somehow this is the fuel. The fuel for our soul (if exists) to drive on. And such is the way I walk on.