Monologue of aWaningMoon
Cassie赵铠煊220110716
A dull golden light floatalongthe bottom of the river, criss-crossing the planks to the edge of the sea. Almost as pessimisticasa corpse,asIam a dark angel,Irealizethat not havingthelast word in everythingand learning to forgetis whatfreedomis all about.
In the transmigration ofDestiny, Icannot helpfeelingthat life is wasted, andthat all that isnowsaidismereself-deception.PresentlyIcast my eyes downward to the land of the living.Howdid the poor creaturesarrange the night before the storm? With all their might, they preparedthewood, tightenedthewindows,and then, despairing,fell asleep.Inthemistof thevision,anxiety,and misery overwhelm me;Ibecome anaughty child, with the ends of mytrouserswetwithdew,wanderinglongin themeadows,afraidof looking up at the rising sun.
Ihave, therefore,always suspectedthat theappearanceofthe full moon istoodazzling,and that the tonic response is comparatively worthless.
At leastIcould revive from“nothing”in a not distant future. What about those flowers which may only bloom once a year?
Once more,Iglance down the street. RedSophoraflowersbloom, asdothewhitespecies,butthe former attractsmoreadmirers. That’s notstrange; Flamboyanceisactuallymoreeye-catching,not to mention it’sin themidst ofdrab spring.ButIcryfor itsreputation,as it failswith the name of“useless”—the beauty is poisonous. If itissilent,whether it should be regarded as a Stoic believer or a vicious assassin;ifitis eloquent, shoulditbe regarded as agreatorator or a noisy lobbyist? I would like it to bepeaceful and quiet. Thus,it canseethe dreamsof water-lilyin Monet's garden,feel the breathof thecottonsfilling the confined space,and searchfor the mosses thatgrow under thecataracts.Better than argument, headdown,screaming blood fillingitsthroat.
On behalf of evil,Ithink thatthe mostimpressivethingshappen at theend andatthe beginning.Iinitially disagreedwiththisopinion,asthe process meantmore stability;whilethe beginning of thingsoften requiresstrengthto push through,the endis sometimesaccompanied bygrief.Hopeanddespairarethetwo ends of the bracket,andI put myselfin the middle. The transmigrationof minewas set up as a circular dead end,with no opportunity to file,over and over again from the beginning of this torture.Later,I gradually became mean enough,onlylooking forward to theordeal, the long waitwas simplified to be"torment". Under these circumstances, if I could seea broadsky at night, I shouldtakenightforday. All the courage and vigorthat had come fromthe sun would bedriven outaltogetherby the ice-cold clouds that enveloped it.
How do you schedule days like solitary confinement?Whenislifegoing tobe as simple as the wind blowing through the grass?For an answer,IthoughtIwould light some starlight in the dimness of theevening.Or call the nightingaletogently awakenthe misty dream.At the same time, I wanted toscour theworldlike a detective,on the mission tofindtelltale signs of self-delusionand self-criticism.
Time is taking me extremely close to the“New”. The moon, they say, is but a slavethatreflectsthe sunlight. No matter what they say,Iwill repeat my transmigration until gravitation gives me up. Hey! It’s time to celebrate the newborn. Let’s pileupscraps ofpaperinthe shape of firewood and light itduringthe long night. I can still rememberthe bicycle-bellsoften years ago, thetalkofthe passers-by, thetwilightof the gods, the notes melting in tears,and the tunesthatdrifting in the wind.
You know what, whenIembark on the journey to“full”, the line betweenshamand realitymay notbe soclear.Icall this secondthecurrent, butthe history of the last minute does not seemtoo old to be covered with dust, and the future of the next moment is not faroff.
AJourney withoutfaith is terrible.In my new life,Icome,Isee,Iembrace.
（赵铠煊）
