I am fond of those plump sheaves of wheat. They serve as a poignant metaphor for me, symbolizing the cherished relatives I’ve lost along life’s journey, the fleeting essence of youth, and the elusive dreams that perpetually elude my grasp. And what, indeed, is time? Is it the meandering current of history, the fleeting existence of all things, or a tempest swirling endlessly? This enigma, akin to fate, remains elusive to clear elucidation; akin to a wheel, it inexorably crushes our lives under its fractured and crumbling weight.
Our lives, ever capricious and mercurial, lack rhyme or reason to follow, much like those solitary and vulnerable birds navigating the tumultuous winds. The void left in the wake of the cyclone is what we deem the sky.
The heavens bear aloft those stalwart souls with ample wingspan and robust vigor. Meanwhile, the frail ones perch upon branches, huddled in the wilderness, quietly succumbing to the wintry night. Perhaps this is the destiny of birds; flight inevitably evolves into an unattainable reverie.
Yet, I still yearn for that flight of the soul. Though I may never transmute into a bird, I pine for the liberation and expansiveness of the spirit. I yearn even for the ethereal sensation of the wind coursing through my being. It is a peculiar dream; a life imbued with dreams is perpetually suffused with hope.
I was led by a fleeting hope, traversing the rocky terrain of reality. The convoluted truths, akin to mirrors reflecting endlessly, fracture me into myriad shards, yet I must persist despite my fractured state.
I tread onward with my kin, yet as we progress, some are swept away by the winds, akin to the harvested wheat stalks. Along our journey, our loved ones are whisked away one by one, yet we trudge on sorrowfully.
The torches of familial affection, kindled by my kin in my heart, gradually flicker out as they depart, leaving me enveloped in the darkness of solitude and helplessness once more.
Yet, those loves that render me powerless are akin to the butterflies that Zhuangzi’s Dream of the Butterfly narrates, flitting hither and thither, vanishing amidst the blossoms momentarily. Perhaps, love inherently possesses the transient nature of the wind, with affection burgeoning and dissipating in an instant.
It appears daunting for me to grasp onto something tangible; I feel ensnared within it. Adversities assail me incessantly, and I find myself ensnared in a cycle of embarrassment.
No one truly possesses the capacity to assuage the frailty of the heart; no one truly harbors the ability to shield another from the inexorable calamities ordained by fate.
The relentless passage of time impels one toward aging, perpetually ensconced in the undulating currents of time akin to water, forever etched in the countenances weathered by the vicissitudes of life.
Indeed, myriad phenomena flit past my gaze, entwining familiar and unfamiliar strands like an intricate tapestry, confounding comprehension.
Perhaps, we are inherently enmeshed within this fleeting chaos; perhaps, our existence in this lifetime is destined to be an exercise in futility; perhaps, all my perplexities stem from within; perhaps, perhaps… myriad conjectures fail to unravel the enigma of fate.
I hold affection for those sheaves of wheat. I have borne witness to the wheat fields I must traverse time and again in their ephemeral existence. I have ultimately discerned the shared essence of fate. Fate unfailingly employs adversity to test our resilience and disasters to scrutinize our resolve. Yet, these sheaves of wheat have become my spiritual anchor and metaphor.
Henceforth, I shall no longer bemoan my lot, nor shall I fear even if I am swept aside by the relentless winds along the path of time, for we shall inevitably reunite in the next life or in this very existence.