Graffiti at the Arc De Triomphe

The Graffiti of the Arc de Triomphe begins with a slow, quiet description. Those small, rough stories, every word, every sentence, every note, and even every punctuation mark, represent an everlasting past. New faces and familiar events seep down like sand in an hourglass, then gradually grow into beautiful legends. Those stories are so much like us in our youth, meeting the tiny specks of dust in our memories by chance. That's why they seize us so easily and make us bow our heads in surrender. It's as if we're always saying goodbye to the past. It seems to have become a habit, but each time, we fail. We never truly say farewell to it, because it is always hiding in some damp patch of soil in our hearts, nourishing and spreading, until it gradually takes root and sprouts.

The story I want to tell is one that perhaps everyone has experienced in some way. In that distant, impossibly distant springtime of youth, in a place called the Arc de Triomphe, we used the passing years to compose one moving melody after another. Looking back, it feels a little bitter and a little sweet, like pieces of rich, not-too-sweet vanilla chocolate, with the most unique and everlasting flavor in the world. In those years, we met someone, missed someone, let someone go. We stumbled along, naive and confused, feeling regret, wishing things had gone differently, finding happiness, and then, in the blink of an eye, going our separate ways. Many years later, when we look back, we can almost remember the mingled smell of sweat and fresh grass on the sports field.

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