Who Is Not a Passer-By in Someone's Life?

Later, I finally understood. Youth is a farewell that no one witnesses. Those trains roaring in the chest, those specimens nailed in the darkroom, the road winding on its own shadow - they all sank into the Mirror Lake on an ordinary evening. I saw the self who once insisted on "must" die quietly. There was no funeral, only the patience of the four seasons covering the old scars layer by layer. When all the debris that failed to cross the river drifted into part of the reflection, I no longer distinguished between mountains and shadows, reality and fiction. But when I got up and left, the lake was as calm as ever and the mountains were as silent as a mystery. It turns out that the end of the difficulty is not to let go, but to finally reconcile with one's own reflection - through death and the silence of rebirth. When I closed this book, the lake breeze was slightly cool, and I suddenly understood: Who is not a passer-by in someone's life, even oneself will eventually be one's old friend.