Tracing the Dust to Find the Wind

Maybe it's a novel, maybe it's non-fiction literature; maybe it's for the memory of forgetfulness, maybe it's to satisfy your inner fantasy. In fact, there are always injustices and lingering sorrow in my heart, and I often write down some real-time thoughts, joys and sorrows. I have always hoped to write a piece of text that will run through my spiritual path in just twenty years, but I am always interrupted by the virtual world and various emotions. I may be able to fill in a few lyrics, write poems, and perfectly complete many essays that are formed with a little bit of a chicken rib, but when it comes to thousands of words and thousands of threads, when it comes to myself and almost all the years I spent in the past by actively forgetting, it's hard to say what it feels like. Facing the reality that I have to face, facing countless forced choices, facing things that I have no feelings for, facing failure, facing myself, jealousy, viciousness, when the social mask disguise meets the self that has been hidden for a long time, facing countless times of cowardice, the status quo that cannot be changed so far, my heart is agitated, but I have never been able to issue an unyielding challenge to the limitations of destiny. On the contrary, I waited for God's gift for a long time, but I didn't cherish it when I didn't know the gift. And when I stand at this moment again, perhaps only Anna Maeko's half-word is the most appropriate description. "Who can spend the golden years? The moon bridge garden, the narrow windows and red doors, only spring knows the place."