Seventeen years old is the tail end of youth, short and gray. Started growing old at the age of eighteen.
The years are like a drifting cloud, sometimes melancholy and sometimes bright. If there is too much gloom, it will sink, it will rain, and it will unload some sadness.
The years disappear with love and pain, leaving only the fragrance of time in the mottled memory. Time is too hasty, and forgetfulness and memory are intertwined. Right and wrong, love and hate end in a silent ending. Recalling those heart-wrenching past events, I realized that everything has become calmer. Has the time filtered out the sadness, or have I grown up in pain?