Actually, I'm not like what you think.

     Actually, this is just me, not what you think.

    I admire the profusion of blossoms on a tree, singing praises of their vying beauty. But what I truly love is the wild lily blooming alone in the valley. I would bend down to smell her, listen to her whispers in the night, and kiss the teardrops in her petals.

    Because she is as lonely as I am, as far removed from the world as I am.

    I have always been this kind of person. Whether melancholy or resentment, there is little sunshine in my heart. I fear the world of solitude, I fear facing the dark night alone, always entangled by those inexplicable thoughts, slowly, slowly, being pulled into an abyss.

    Nostalgia is a very subtle emotion. Some people and some events from those times play out in my mind like scenes from a movie. However, we are often easily buried by the tide of the past. The happy moments make us linger but we can't go back, the sad moments make us regret but we can't make up for them. Thus, nostalgia becomes a misty forest, unclear and impossible to escape.

    I enjoy being with friends, whether on a bustling street or in a quiet little house. There's always laughter, always a force that makes time flow. At least, I no longer have to dredge up those memories I don't want to touch again, even if it's so hypocritical. Some people like to hide in the shadows, but I'm always in front of others. In front of others, I like to be talkative, because my heart has run out of words. In front of others, I like to laugh heartily, because my heart has lost all joy. In front of others, I like to be carefree and unrestrained, because my heart is forever shackled. In front of others, I like to smile brightly, because my heart is always crying in gloom.

    Actually, this is just me, not what you think.

    I've wondered why we always have to live alone in this world, hypocritically talking about striving every day, yet reaping ridicule and heartache in our busy lives. Every day I see those masked faces, the undisguised indifference beneath the enthusiasm, saying things they don't want to say, doing things they hate to do.

    They tell me, this is life.

    I know that a mature person doesn't treat life as a game, nor does they treat a game as life. We try so hard to face the world like adults, yet we can never shake off the awkwardness of childlike naiveté. At least, your heart has never matured. In fact, you've never truly grown up. Because you've never learned to be strong.

    Those who can't let go of the past can never truly be happy.

    Vulnerability and gloom, like clouds that the wind can't blow away, are always there.

    Actually, this is just me, not what you think.

    Sometimes, sadness doesn't need a reason. However, happiness does need a reason, a good enough reason.

    Without a reason to be happy, what else can make you smile?

    The bright lights and dazzling nights, the decadent world, aren't suitable for everyone, nor do they need everyone. Everyone has their own reason for seeking happiness. Thus, those romantic moments are understood differently. For some, they're a way to pass the time; for others, they're a light in the darkness. Some laugh wildly on neon-lit streets; some cry hysterically on windswept streets.

    The world of ukiyo-e has always been this real.

    If I were just a blank sheet of paper, never touched by so many colors, then I would be a perfect painting. If I were just a blank sheet of paper, never written on by so many words, then I would be a complete story.

    A heart, once it has a place to rest, is never willingly left to drift aimlessly.

    Actually, this is just me, not what you think.