We are always passing away.
Those floating clouds called youth flow slowly overhead, casting bright and dim light and shadow. We spend a lot of time thinking that everything will come to an end, that those people and things will stay at that coordinate forever like stars, shining brightly.
Later I realized that the so-called "joyfulness" was just a glimmer of light that we tried to grasp during the turbulent years. "Time is like a song" is a gentle filter that puts a gentle filter on the fragmented past when we recall it later.
I heard the wind whistling in my ears. It cut off the past, cut off the noisy cicadas that summer, and cut off the past that we can never go back to.
In this huge, noisy world, we rise and fall like dust.
May the wind carry the past like floating clouds, and may you still live affectionately in this ruthless world after singing and crying.
Intent: prose