The first time I saw her, she was standing in front of me with a small box. It had just rained in the lake in July, which made people feel a bit cool. She stood there obediently, looking directly at me with a tender and watery eyes. I had never experienced such personal tenderness. When I asked her to come over, she held my hand with a hint of shyness. Perhaps because the night was too charming, I actually felt a little moved.
In that dimly lit small room, we talked from Kafka to Osamu Dazai, from Tagore to Van Gogh. Tenderness flooded you and me like a tide. I hope this moment will last forever, and I hope she can belong to me forever.
She is a delicious white flower. I touch her beauty with my own hands, but I cannot pick up her imperfections. I think she must be free, and no external object can restrain her existence. I just cherish her fate. She has a great youth, but she is burdened with heavy responsibilities. She has a gambling father and a young brother who is less than one year old. She should not have to bear all this.
I want to take her away, take her away from this place, to a place without worries and pain, just us, only happiness.
It's just that I underestimated her stubbornness. In the hazy night, she rejected my kindness, and I only realized it later. After all, she is a flower planted in a flowerpot. Whether it blooms or withers, nothing can be decided by the wind.
At this moment, I realized that what I was washing was not the feet, but the mud of walking in the world. The only thing I could do was to leave an insignificant brushstroke on her when she was at her best.
