Youth is a bright wound; scattered youth, scattered wounds. Who will give a home to our wayward youth, to our earliest dreams, love, hopes, and joys? The pain is not violent, but it cuts to the bone and leaves its mark. The beautiful things we longed for as teenagers are gradually diluted by reality as we grow up, until they grow old and pale. Our youth transforms through pain and failure, again and again, until we break free of our cocoons and become butterflies. Our world is so beautiful, yet it makes us want to cry. We struggle through youth, fleeing in disarray.
At our age, we are captivated by nothing but mournful love songs. We believe in love, though in our youth we have yet to understand its true meaning. We would rather taste the fruit of love before it ripens, only to find it bitter. We are often hurt in love, wounded until our hearts feel torn apart. But who can say whether what we feel now is really love? The confused feelings between us make us love without a second thought. It's like a window: we hurl ourselves at it with all our strength, shatter it, then climb through the jagged glass with our battered, bloodied bodies and begin another relationship. Is this the only way to understand love, the only way to grow?
The years flow by like water, but have not passed, and yet they have already become a sorrow.
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