The memory started from the moment I saw him.
The first is the memory of images. Next comes the memory of sound.
God said, let there be light. Then, there was light.
I always felt that God wore a black jacket, held a zippo lighter, and said, "Let there be light" in a rap tone and rhythm. With a click, the flame of the lighter flickered like a bright star in the darkness, illuminating the whole world.
In my mind, God has always been so cool.
And he just stood in front of me on a quiet afternoon as if nothing had happened and asked: "Do you like painting?" Then, my world opened grandly.
Colorful, some happy and some sad.
I couldn't answer his question. Because at that moment, everything had nothing to do with painting, but everything to do with love.
My sixteen years old, my seventeen years old, my eighteen years old.
Every year, clumsy writing about him is carefully recorded in the diary. His hairstyle, his figure, the way he talks, the way he looks when he smiles.
God created this world, and He created my world. Even though I am so reluctant to put him and God in the same sentence.
But that's the truth. And the saddest part is the same.