E-PT

     It didn't look like it had just rained. The sky was still a deep, clear blue, with fluffy white clouds resembling large chunks of cotton candy. The lush trees and shrubs along the roadside looked much cleaner, like newly replaced screens. The ground was wet underfoot, and the sounds of laughter and footsteps drifted by. But it was just a thunderstorm, and soon the clear sky was soaked into a pale gray sheet of rice paper. The clouds transformed into a freehand, unrestrained ink wash painting, and colorful umbrellas appeared out of nowhere on the street, like tiny mushrooms with legs.     Busy people rarely have the time or inclination to listen to or appreciate the rain these days, and I only occasionally have that leisure and inclination. I remember living in the countryside when I was a child. In the rain or after the rain, a group of us kids would always run outside the village to play, especially as evening approached. The moonlight was hazy, a gentle b...

     During my intermittent stays in the county town for over half a year, I would always catch a glimpse of a pavilion atop a distant mountain amidst the hurried pace of life. A sense of longing would inevitably stir within me, perhaps a feeling of being called to it, or perhaps the allure of its tranquility. So, I decided to visit it before leaving, lest I leave with a sense of incompleteness.     That morning, I quietly set off, not bothering to ask for directions because it was "nearby," simply going wherever my heart led me. After walking along a tree-lined avenue, I realized I still needed to traverse fields and villages to reach my destination. Half an hour later, I finally arrived at the pavilion, only to be surprised to find it wasn't a park, but a temple.     The temple's deity was presumably one of the Eight Immortals; I didn't examine it closely. Suddenly, I realized this seemed somewhat different from my usual self, someone who always enjo...

     Autumn arrived unnoticed, perhaps still in your dreams. Last night's autumn rain, weary after a day and night, finally ceased at dusk, and suddenly a clear, cold moon emerged from the clouds.     The evening breeze from the borderlands, through the window and the cool moonlight, entered my room. The wind rushed in, while the moonlight flowed in. All around was silent; the distant barking of dogs seemed to break the inner peace, yet added a touch of tranquility to the night.     The streetlights in the distance, lined up, flickered with an orange glow, and the people in their homes, along with the midnight lights, fell silent with the night. I gazed at the lonely streetlights, searching for the taste of the ends of the earth. The streetlights were fortunate; they shone brightly in unison because the darkness embraced me, while they broke the darkness. I could see them, but they never saw me. Only this cool, clear moonlight cast its last rays upon m...

     Tea, fragrant leaves, tender buds. That delicate touch of green, gently steeped in water, evokes the ancient charm of Jiangnan.     From the moment they begin to grow, they are gently plucked by the warm hands of tea pickers and placed in bamboo baskets they carry. After the initial processing (killing the green), slender fingers spread each new green leaf flat on bamboo boards, then flatten, bake, and store them. Countless turnings and careful handling are the tea pickers' devout wishes and their longing for spring. The aroma of tea fills the room, making one forget worldly concerns.     In the dry weather, a sip of clear tea gradually calms the chaotic mind; perhaps only a sense of contentment is worthy of such a feeling. Standing in the courtyard, a cool breeze blows, the heat dissipates, a faint fragrance lingers in the mouth, a subtle bitterness on the taste buds—this calm yet melancholic emotion is addictive. Okay, I admit it. Most tea lover...

     On the day of the Awakening of Insects for many years, it always rained, a day when all things under heaven awaken, the rain their aura. And what about the Qingming Festival for many years? Yellow paper turned to smoke in the flames, drifting away, but unable to take away the sorrow and longing of the world. Tears in the eyes evaporated in the smoke, silently etching tear tracks into the heart. A few cups of wine were offered at the grave, shared with you, then looking around, a silent laugh escaped the lips. Wild grass grew on the grave, only desolation awaited behind.     All this is the fault of reincarnation; everyone has their own destiny. Living and leaving are less understanding of human tenderness than the ever-flowing river. On Qingming, peach blossoms fell, treading a lonely and desolate path. Flames devoured the sorrow entrusted, firecrackers awakened slumbering life. Your image in my heart remains the same as before, that red spider lily, the fl...

     It's said that as people grow up, troubles follow. In fact, as long as desires exist, troubles will never cease. Why is that? As a child, I hated studying, longed for freedom, and wanted to escape the constraints of family. Now, I'm working, earning money, and mature, yet I want to end my wandering, willing to be bound by attachments, and my yearning for belonging is exceptionally strong. Isn't this contrary to my former ideals? What I've pursued my whole life is simply moving from one family to another.     The TV wasn't good; after flipping through the channels, I ended up watching "Princess Pearl," which has been playing for ten years. The faces of those girls are older than they were last night; the once vibrant women are now mature beauties, less talkative, more reserved. I, who was once obsessed with fantasy, have also drifted away from fairy tales, seeking only temporary, carefree joy, which I can forget about later—it doesn't matter anymor...

     I can finally spare some time from my busy schedule to stroll in the autumn night breeze.     The streetlights of the small town illuminate the distance. Leisurely adults lead boys and girls towards the square.     The wind holds my arm, but I hold the wind's heart. Among the scattered stars in the sky, a few remain so persistent, so bright. The hustle and bustle of the small town is enveloped by a deep sense of local sentiment; tranquility ultimately belongs to the sleeping night. The wind is a beautiful encounter; you can hardly find it in the sweltering daytime, it is only stirred up in the leisure of the night.     Tonight I have a date with the wind, in this season of maturity, in this moment of leisure, in this night with a touch of charm. The desolation caused by boredom is dissolved in this windy night. A touch of beauty is alluring, especially in this inexplicable autumn atmosphere. The wind sways gently, stirring up the fragran...

     When we parted, I wondered if I would let such a man who had captured my heart slip through my fingers.     We had known each other for 21 days, but surprisingly, I liked him. I hadn't felt this way in a long time; it came suddenly,     leaving me somewhat at a loss. At this age, I can't withstand any more storms or trials. Our relationship wouldn't be as impulsive and willful as it was in my youth; it was mixed with many complexities, yet it still moved me. I was actually quite afraid of how I, who had been through a relationship before, and he, who had the same experience, would interact.     "Do you love me?" I would often ask him, and afterwards, I would laugh at myself. How could I ask such an ignorant question in less than 21 days since we met? "Yes," he answered. I looked at our WeChat chat history and smiled bitterly. It wasn't that I didn't believe the answer, but rather, this kind of question was truly impossible to answer. ...

     I once dreamed of being a cloud, because I felt it was free and unrestrained, drifting and scattering, yet always able to gather again.     Whenever I walk along that familiar path leading home and school, I always like to look up at the sky. The sky is a clear blue, the sun making it bright and dazzling. A few white clouds drift lazily across the horizon, carrying a lazy, comfortable, free, and unrestrained feeling, floating from one side of the sky to the other.     Occasionally, I'll encounter a few azaleas, swaying desperately in the wind on that small hillside in March. That splash of bright red amidst the green is particularly striking. As the clouds drift by, my feet unconsciously half-walk, half-hop, my heart overflowing with a joy that belongs to the sunshine, to the vastness of nature, like a gentle breeze warming my heart.     Occasionally, I'd encounter a field of summer lotus blossoms. In June, the rain had washed the road s...

     I remember this time last year, we had only known each other for a month. Yet, we poured out our hearts to each other, like old friends. We talked about everything, wanting to know everything about each other, as if trying to seize the moment to possess each other. After our last parting, we both knew we would never cross paths again, but we still comforted each other online, promising a bright future.     Now, we are like two parallel lines, silently watching each other, or perhaps I silently watch you. Looking at your posts on social media, watching you chat with new friends, I think, "Maybe this isn't so bad." Seeing you happy is enough, isn't it? I've forgotten when we stopped contacting each other. I only know that our conversations became less and less frequent, slowly dwindling to a single indifferent greeting, a like on social media, and finally just a silent glance.     Why do some people enter our lives, and others quietly leave? Some pe...

     Memories pull me back, I can't escape them, nor do I intend to break free. I'm still trying to find a perfect ending. Yet, my heart remains undisturbed. I've reminded myself not to think about bad things, but that doesn't mean I can truly forget.     The story continues, the sorrow continues to spread. Why am I still so desolate? I don't need companionship; I have new hopes and beliefs. I don't want to explain, nor do I force anything. I just watch the world grow quieter and quieter. I increasingly don't want to speak. No one can truly unravel this; I know this is something I cannot allow to happen.     There's something called loneliness that I'm so fascinated by. I'll laugh alone, cry alone, and then wipe it away, telling myself: It's good to have something to do. After hardship comes happiness. The world is sunny, even if it snows tomorrow.     There's Tenten, there's Naruto, there's One Piece, and I'm still waiting. T...

     Mid-September. A month that wearies both body and mind. Yet, my mood was quite different from these realities. Though tired, I felt happy and joyful. It turns out, living is about this state of mind. A good mood makes everything good.     Clapping my hands and laughing at the autumn wind, my thoughts were soothed. After sending my child to school early in the morning, I headed to Yingkou. I recalled my childhood; my great-grandparents' home was in Yingkou. Back then, whenever we said we were going to Yingkou, we never said "going to Yingkou," but rather "going down to Yingkou, to Shanghai." It makes sense, really. Because Yingkou is geographically low-lying, while Shanghai is higher than our area. Therefore, we got used to saying "going down to Yingkou."     My mood was indescribable along the way. For another reason I can't quite explain. Passing through a place I'll remember for the rest of my life, my heart began to ache. A relationship...

     The night I think of you is already a little chilly. I remember our first meeting, the same path, the same cool night, the same camphor tree, the same moonlight, only you are no longer by my left. Bitterness fills my heart and wells up in my eyes.     On my way home, I recall those beautiful memories, but they are already lost. What made us strangers?     By the camphor tree downstairs, I can still see your figure standing there, and I can still feel your warmth in my left palm. But, my dear, what has made us strangers now?     The overpass at the intersection, the night view of the square, the soy milk shop we used to frequent are all forbidden places for me. My dear, if you still come to this overpass, pass by this square, and go past that soy milk shop, will you still remember me, the one you once held hands with? Even if your arm is now linked with another's? My dear, what has made us so unfamiliar and distant now?     Do y...

     I'm a rather nostalgic person. I always feel that the old is worse than the new, and that things get better with age. This manifests in my lifestyle as a strong "retro" tendency. I enjoy listening to old songs, reading old books, and watching old movies, while I'm not particularly interested in today's wildly popular online singers, writers, or rising stars. Some friends jokingly call me an "old-fashioned scholar," a title I neither agree nor disagree with. While it's good for the old to be replaced by the new, the sense of history and worldliness that comes with it is something that today's so-called "new generation" of 90s kids can't truly capture. Therefore, I always judge trends based solely on my personal likes and dislikes. I enjoy reading in my spare time, a habit I've maintained for many years—it's one of my quirks. Speaking of books, perhaps I'm a bit biased, but I especially love the works of older female ...

     It's snowing on my way home from work.     Snow, these winter sprites, possess a delicate heart and a shy beauty. Like flower petals, they dance gracefully in the air, bringing unexpected joy and a touch of emotion to those shivering in the cold wind.     I suddenly wondered, how long does it take for a snowflake to form and then vanish? A few minutes? Or a few seconds? It certainly won't be long; that's its life cycle—falling to the ground, onto my body, onto my shoulder. I couldn't bear to shake them off, trying my best to let them linger in this world a little longer. Perhaps they will achieve immortality in another form, gaining another cycle of life, but our encounter began and ended in this way.     This moment of tenderness, romantic and exquisite.     I cherish this fleeting connection.

I embarked on my solo journey with a troubled heart. The moment I boarded the train, a nameless sadness washed over me. Lying on the moving train, I fantasized about the future. But fantasy and reality are always different… As the train reached its destination, the sky turned against me; perhaps even the heavens wept for me. A light drizzle began, then a torrential downpour, shrouding my already heavy heart in mist. I arrived at my destination and boarded the tour bus. The rain continued to accompany us, playing a harmonious melody. Listening to that harmonious music, mingled with the tour guide's hoarse voice, it all flowed into the corridors of my memory, scene after scene flashing before my eyes… As the tour bus neared the city center, the rain gradually stopped. The tour guide's hoarse voice narrated the story of this beautiful seaside city, his vivid explanations bringing my thoughts back to this long-awaited city, allowing me to feel its civilized and harmonious be...

     The night was slightly cool, a gentle breeze rustling. I had just woken up and habitually checked the time on my phone: "Tuesday, December 31, 2013, 6:28 AM." Suddenly, as if an electric current had passed through my body, I shuddered, and the sleepiness vanished instantly. Watching the morning light stream through the window, listening to the breeze rustling the branches outside, I felt the wheels of time spinning rapidly, turning past winds, past rains, past springs, past winters, past joys and sorrows, past gains and losses. In the rush, 2013 waved goodbye, and the brand new 2014 suddenly appeared before me, catching me off guard.     Goodbye, my 2013, an ordinary yet profound year. It was you who gave me my grandson as a birthday gift; it was you who allowed me to achieve great things amidst favorable weather; it was you who gave me more waiting and anticipation; it was you who gave me more longing and affection. You are the endless warmth in my heart! ...

     Qingming Festival,     far from home, my ancestral remembrance is only in my heart.     Suddenly, I think of our love,     so long ago.     Should I offer that little chrysanthemum for love?     My hands tremble as I hold the chrysanthemum,     yet my heart feels a thousand pounds, unable to let go.     I keep sending you messages,     keep writing words of love.     There are so many things I want to do for you, but I can't;     so many words I want to say to you, but I can't.     All I can do is use all my humor to subtly bring you joy;     all I can say is use all my wisdom to gently inquire about your feelings.     Now, this is all I can do for you.     I have no demands on you; any request would seem to overstep our boundaries.     I have no complaints; any blame would seem to damage our pure friendship.   ...

     Our meeting made me vow to love you forever. With each changing season, you remain the most beautiful sight in my heart. Every smile and gesture of yours captivates me. The marks of time are etched with our beautiful memories. Memories are a vibrant landscape in life, each scene filled with laughter that echoes and calls out to us, calling for constant happiness! Listen! Everything around us is inscribed with vows of love! Can you feel it? My voice gently enters your body, wandering through every corner, loving you to the very core. I don't want to know too much about the future. With you and me, let's soar freely in the realm of love! In the future, in the days without you, I will write all our beautiful moments into poems, recording them in my heart. I will proudly write "I love you" stroke by stroke! In the quiet of the night, I will gently hold you as we fall asleep. Perhaps, there's no need for sighs or lamentations. Now, when I'm asleep and dream of...

     When my mind is in turmoil, I always want to go outside for a walk and see the world. I love clear blue skies and waters, and places that bring peace to my soul. We are always entangled by all sorts of things and people in this world. Many times, even knowing that life can't be all smooth sailing, the more we think this way, the more stubborn we become. The reason we can't let go is because we pursue too much. Life is a constant pursuit, and in that pursuit, we always want too much. When it becomes unattainable, we become self-inflicted troubles. A whole host of worries and anxieties spill from our mouths. Knowing that many things can't be achieved, we stubbornly insist on getting them.     Some people appear in our lives, and we always try to impose our own views on them. Once we discover that someone is too different from us, we can't tolerate their behavior. So, we keep asking ourselves, "How could that person be like this?" or "How could that per...

     In life, some people live by scheming and plotting, some by vying for power and status, and some by diligently striving for a living. "Life?" What is life? The definition of life differs for everyone. Some see life as going to work, coming home, eating, and sleeping. Some see it as eating, drinking, and having fun. Some see it as a single "point" in life. This point in life, I cannot understand. I want to understand it, but I am often swayed, swayed by my own heart. What is my heart swaying? I don't understand. Is it attachment? Is it being unable to let go? I think so! I seem to understand many so-called "grand principles" better than those around me, and I can articulate them eloquently. But! My heart has not truly achieved "letting go." I often want to become a "detached" person; the more I try to glimpse the secrets to eternal happiness, the more I fall into a state of "seeing flowers through a fog," my understand...

     I want you to never find me again. What we've gained is nothing special; what we've lost, what we never had, is truly precious. I'm reluctant to let go, unwilling to sever ties with the past. I still can't forget, still can't imagine growing old alone like this. I'm still holding onto my initial goodness, slowly watching misunderstandings blossom and bear fruit, step by step , becoming a tomb.     If you are a poem in my life, how can I sing it without betraying the beauty of its melody?     If you never truly blossomed, how can I preserve it to ensure my parched heart can rise again, becoming tomorrow's moon, illuminating the way home?     If you've always been listening to my resounding songs every night, is there a touch of clumsy brilliance that makes you momentarily forget the gentleness of spring, remembering only the wandering of my heart?     And all my unwilling desires stem from those unappreciated monologues. The dia...

     During work hours, I found myself typing away, expressing my innermost thoughts. I glanced up from the balcony; the sky was hazy and indistinct, as if the heavens themselves were trembling.     The mist couldn't conceal its intoxicating gentleness; the dim, slanting sunlight cast tranquil, fragmented rays, reflecting on my face and leaving a misty, cool glow. Holding a cup of tea, I sat before my computer, and memories began to spread, little by little, until they overwhelmed my longing, bringing back long-lost feelings. Concern, longing, anticipation, yearning, entanglement, indifference… These complex emotions couldn't hide my eyes; a single, glistening tear seemed about to fall. Was I heartbroken? Was I moved? I couldn't even tell. I was thinking of you, and I wondered if you felt any pity.     The stars, obscured by the dim light, were barely visible. I wonder, which of these stars belongs to you, and which to me? Do we share the same trajecto...

     The day ended in the afterglow of the setting sun, and the joy and excitement lingered. The pleasure and delight Nana brought watered my heart in the gentle drizzle. The last rays of sunset faded in the crimson glow of the setting sun. My heart trembled. I sighed at the swift passage of time, yet found it hard to relinquish the most genuine warmth. In a rush, from the desolate autumn with its withered grass to the snow-covered winter, from the vibrant spring with its singing birds to the lush midsummer; a year has passed in a blur, the hourglass of time silently flowing through my hands, a pity for life, a sorrow for the fleeting years…     Standing on the rooftop, I gazed at the neon lights of the distant bustling streets, casting long shadows of pedestrians until they disappeared. From the half-closed door of a bar in a deep alley, dim light shone; who was singing mournful notes, striking at the hidden wounds in my heart? I no longer have the courage or p...

     Today, for some reason, I went to buy envelopes. It's been such a long time since I've used them; the very word "envelope" feels unfamiliar to me. A long time ago, I read an article in *Midnight Letters* called "From Quill Pen to Thumb," which lamented the unique nature of interpersonal relationships in today's information age: forgetting someone is as simple as moving a finger and deleting them from your phone's contact list! Perhaps a person is just a string of numbers! It seems that relationships between people are now so fragile, so realistic, so indifferent, so vulnerable! The happy anticipation of writing letters is gone; all that remains are the tiresome, distinctive ringtones of mobile phones! I remember in 2000, in an era when analog and digital phones coexisted, I read an article in *Digital Communications* called "The Annoying Information Age." At the time, I couldn't understand why the author was so resistant to this ra...

These past few days on my business trip have finally allowed me some peace and quiet. I enjoy carrying my heavy camera around, and in my camera bag, besides the camera, there's also a collection of essays. My heart is in turmoil, and I need these books to soothe my turbulent and chaotic inner world. I sit alone on the balcony of my room, leaning against the window, brewing a cup of tea, and picking up the book to savor it. Perhaps in this day and age, few people still have this kind of sentiment. I prefer to express my feelings through writing in a calm, serene, and simple way, even preferring to use inferior ink, because the poor quality of the ink makes the pigments mix unevenly, giving the handwriting a more textured feel. I've always been someone who loves to find joy in writing, but life is often contrary to my wishes. I rarely have enough time and quiet space to read anymore, let alone recite those stirring masterpieces aloud without restraint. This is the tragedy of ...

     There's a piece of music worth listening to, whether it evokes sadness and despair or passion and excitement—Maksim's "Croatian Rhapsody."     Even on a spring day like this     , everywhere on campus, in every corner, the various scenic spots are teeming with people. Under the late-blooming magnolia trees, beside the majestic clock tower, cameras of all sizes, genuine or knock-off, are enveloped in the scent of people, men and women of all ages striking various poses with great enthusiasm. By the newly sprouted reeds of Mei Lake, a still-childish little boy crawls on the ground; just moments ago he was peeking through the trash cans, while his mother laughs beside him.     On the increasingly dense earthen hills to the north, figures appeared and disappeared; a couple embraced passionately on the rooftop of the stylish North Building; on the observatory, all sorts of people went up and down, their eyes flashing with camera lenses; a gir...

     I don't know when it started, but the old Christmas carol began playing cheerfully on car stereos, and the Christmas atmosphere filled restaurants and bars. Looking back suddenly, I realized another year had been wasted.     Thinking about the past, perhaps I'm really getting old; some things in my memories no longer seem so important. Dreams, whether realized or not, lie quietly there, no longer stirring any ripples in my heart.     Whether it's more gray hair or deeper wrinkles, I used to remember using inspirational songs or poems to motivate myself when I was criticized. But one day I suddenly understood that maturity is about being able to calmly accept differing or even wrong viewpoints.     Aside from those micro-business owners, almost no one updates their status on social media anymore. I don't know when it started, but everyone slowly closed their windows; I don't know when it started, but all that's left on social media is emp...