Monologue of a Waning Moon

Cassie 赵铠煊 220110716

A dull golden light float along the bottom of the river, criss-crossing the planks to the edge of the sea. Almost as pessimistic as a corpse, as I am a dark angel, I realize that not having the last word in everything and learning to forget is what freedom is all about.

In the transmigration of Destiny, I cannot help feeling that life is wasted, and that all that is now said is mere self-deception. Presently I cast my eyes downward to the land of the living. How did the poor creatures arrange the night before the storm? With all their might, they prepared the wood, tightened the windows, and then, despairing, fell asleep. In the mist of the vision, anxiety, and misery overwhelm me; I become a naughty child, with the ends of my trousers wet with dew, wandering long in the meadows, afraid of looking up at the rising sun.

I have, therefore, always suspected that the appearance of the full moon is too dazzling, and that the tonic response is comparatively worthless.

At least I could revive from “nothing” in a not distant future. What about those flowers which may only bloom once a year?

Once more, I glance down the street. Red Sophora flowers bloom, as do the white species, but the former attracts more admirers. That’s not strange; Flamboyance is actually more eye-catching, not to mention it’s in the midst of drab spring. But I cry for its reputation, as it fails with the name of “useless”—the beauty is poisonous. If it is silent, whether it should be regarded as a Stoic believer or a vicious assassin; if it is eloquent, should it be regarded as a great orator or a noisy lobbyist? I would like it to be peaceful and quiet. Thus, it can see the dreams of water-lily in Monet's garden, feel the breath of the cottons filling the confined space, and search for the mosses that grow under the cataracts. Better than argument, head down, screaming blood filling its throat.

On behalf of evil, I think that the most impressive things happen at the end and at the beginning. I initially disagreed with this opinion, as the process meant more stability; while the beginning of things often requires strength to push through, the end is sometimes accompanied by grief. Hope and despair are the two ends of the bracket, and I put myself in the middle. The transmigration of mine was 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, only looking forward to the ordeal, the long wait was simplified to be "torment". Under these circumstances, if I could see a broad sky at night, I should take night for day. All the courage and vigor that had come from the sun would be driven out altogether by the ice-cold clouds that enveloped it.

How do you schedule days like solitary confinement? When is life going to be as simple as the wind blowing through the grass? For an answer, I thought I would light some starlight in the dimness of the evening. Or call the nightingale to gently awaken the misty dream. At the same time, I wanted to scour the world like a detective, on the mission to find telltale signs of self-delusion and self-criticism.

Time is taking me extremely close to the “New”. The moon, they say, is but a slave that reflects the sunlight. No matter what they say, I will repeat my transmigration until gravitation gives me up. Hey! It’s time to celebrate the newborn. Let’s pile up scraps of paper in the shape of firewood and light it during the long night. I can still remember the bicycle-bells of ten years ago, the talk of the passers-by, the twilight of the gods, the notes melting in tears, and the tunes that drifting in the wind.

You know what, when I embark on the journey to “full”, the line between sham and reality may not be so clear. I call this second the current, but the history of the last minute does not seem too old to be covered with dust, and the future of the next moment is not far off.

A Journey without faith is terrible. In my new life, I come, I see, I embrace.

（赵铠煊）