These past few days, the weather has suddenly warmed a little. Sitting by the window in the afternoon, I heard children laughing and playing outside. The sound rose and fell, drifting as if from a great distance, yet also like brushing along the edges of old days, gently scraping past. The laughter itself was not particularly special, but landing on my heart, it made me pause slightly, as if something long dormant had been softly touched.
Sometimes, it is on such utterly ordinary days—a sliver of sunlight, the drone of a cicada, a gust of wind carrying the scent of grass and dust—that the past is suddenly drawn forth. That past does not stand neatly before one's eyes; it always comes in fragments: half a low wall, the shadow of a tree, a tin box, a road home; and the slightly yellow sky around summer suppertime, like a thin layer of honey, slowly spreading over the eaves, the bamboo chairs, and the people.
As a child, one does not understand what passing is. A class was very long, a summer was very long, a year was also very long. The dusk after school seemed boundless, the playful shouts at the alley entrance could last for ages, the unfinished homework, the longed-for holidays, the growing up that always felt distant—all were once earnestly awaited. The world back then was actually very small, so small it could only hold the tree in the courtyard, the sunset on the way home, the snacks in the schoolbag, the laughter before the television, and those barefoot, dust-covered running times when one never felt tired.
I often think that memory probably has a temperament too. It refuses to record those high-sounding words for us, nor has the patience to preserve too many rigid joys and sorrows. Like a mischievous child, it only picks up trivial details: a pencil case with chipped paint, a homework sheet with a wrong character, a small argument over something forgotten, a pair of feet hot from running, a piece of candy held in the mouth, long reluctant to swallow. Recalling them many years later, they feel more real than anything else.
Precisely because of this, I increasingly feel that time is a very strange thing. It moves without a sound. As a child, I always thought growing up had a boundary, like a door; inside the door was the past, outside was the future. One step across, and a person would be different. Later I realized there is no such clear division. A person is merely gently pushed by time, moving forward day by day. Today and yesterday seem not much different; tomorrow and the day after also seem to hold little that is earth-shattering. Yet walking on, suddenly looking back, one finds they are already very far away. So far that one wonders, was that former self truly me from the past?
I always feel a touch of melancholy.
This melancholy is not necessarily all sadness. Within it are some indescribable things, like reluctance, yet also like gratitude; like knowing one cannot hold on, yet still unable to resist turning back for a look. I gradually understand that life is not as spacious as I thought as a child. The so-called 'ample time ahead' is, in many cases, merely an illusion of youth. The times when one can truly, with full enthusiasm, go see, learn, walk, and love are actually not that many. Even if days still line up ahead, one's state of mind, energy, and passion may not always grow fresh and vibrant like the plants in early spring.
Before, I always thought I could wait, could prepare, could repeatedly postpone my wishes, could set aside my passions for the time being. But the truth is, time stops for no one. Time and things do not stay in place because of a person's hesitation; many opportunities do not return after one has passed them by. Time does not always take things away in a violent manner; it simply lets everything gradually recede through the shifting. By the time one realizes it, it is often already half a step too late.
I believe that truly cherishing time actually carries a bit of self-restraint, a bit of prudence. Because one knows life is finite, one is unwilling to squander it lightly, unwilling to trade it for too many empty, bustling things. Such as meaningless comparisons, such as the judgments of others, such as futile anxieties all day long, while forgetting to look down and examine one's own heart. If entangled by these things, even if the days pass noisily, they may not necessarily be any less desolate.
Living in the present is more about, amidst all the chaos and disturbance, still being willing to treat each meal and each day with earnestness. Seeing flowers bloom, then truly go and see the flowers; meeting an old friend, then treat them with sincerity; having something to learn, then calm the mind and learn it; having a path one wishes to walk, then while one's legs are still strong, slowly set out. If there is still something in one's heart one wants to do, there is no need to always fob oneself off with 'wait until later.'
A person truly living is perhaps not reflected in how many grand scenes they create, but in whether they have earnestly managed their own life. Whether they have properly eaten every meal, properly watched the four seasons turn, properly observed the changing colors of the sky as dusk settles, whether they have cherished certain brief and pure joys, whether, while still having the ability to learn, to love, to travel far, to gaze upon the world, they did not easily betray that little bit of unextinguished heartfelt intention.
Lifting my head from these boundless thoughts, outside the window had gradually grown quiet, only the wind passing through the trees, making an extremely soft sound. I suddenly realized that I myself must have once laughed, run, and played like this; must have also thought that dusk would stay in place day after day, that the road before the door was always so long, long enough to walk for a lifetime. Now, thinking back, it seems separated by a thin layer of mist. The figures on the other side of the mist are still there, but they can no longer be called upon.