"My flowers are blooming. Do you want to come and take a look? They are blooming very well."
"The flowers in the courtyard are blooming, are you there?"
"Well, it's about time it was full."
"What I want is not the nod you gave me when you were dying, but your heart that beats freshly and can run with me to the future."
"I dreamed of you playing the violin again at night. The tune was the same one you played for me under the old locust tree that spring. But when I watered the flowers this morning and saw the new buds sprouting on your grave, I remembered that the locust leaves had already fallen three times..."
He buried his ashes in the spring fields, planted flowers on the grave, danced alone with dead branches on rainy nights, and talked with the air during the day. Those "madnesses" silenced by the villagers, those old memories hidden in the petals and the sound of rain, are shaking off the obscure fragments of love and eternal loss with the creaking of the wooden door - some people are trapped in that spring forever, while some people hold on to their memories and plant the desolation into a garden full of flowers.
Purpose: Using "spring fullness" as a metaphor, I write about the eternal pull between love and loss, and explore how people use obsession to fight against desolation in extreme pain, so that memory and love can grow forever in confinement. Even if the ending is BE, let the deep love speak loudly in the blank space.