Unknown Chaos
To dedicate oneself to the world is the final respect for one's own life, and also the strongest and most powerful hymn of praise in this life so far, a song of courage, or perhaps a cry of my sorrow.
Only when a writer pushes their spirit to the brink of collapse can they produce the most stunning works, which often carry a vibrant beauty yet reveal a sense of desolation amidst the splendor. Whether it is fate or love and hate, they struggle with a hundred flowers. The red and purplish-black phantoms clash, indistinguishable between you and me, regardless of day or night, existing eternally until that writer falls, that warrior falls, only then will one side achieve victory. Or perhaps there is another possibility, the happiness of blooming flowers overcomes the poignant desolation, and the writer attains eternal happiness.
This kind of chaos is being performed upon me; regardless of who wins or loses, this is my first dance at the bottom of the valley and also my last dance. Let me split the chaos once more and fight against this detestable inner demon; what I offer to the world is ultimately my grave or my happiness, and in the end, everything will settle.
Photon Mirage
The desolate wind sweeps across the wilderness, stirring up clouds of dust. He walks upon the vast earth wearing a crown, each breath accompanied by dust, these particles filling his lungs. Every breath he takes stimulates his nerves, physical signals continuously changing within him, ultimately reaching his brain. Each breath pulls him into a past illusion, amidst the light and electric-like mirage, he gazes longingly at that royal city, clearly observing every moment he once experienced in that city, it was his past illusion, his dream, his happiness, almost everything to him; it was his second hometown, his lover, his everything.
He catches a glimpse of his story with that city. In older books, everything on the surface of that city is recorded, a gentle, resilient, and vast city, where the melody he loves resonates at all times. He left his hometown at a young age; that city was merely the most inconspicuous among the cities he passed through, yet every time he left it, its melody would always play in his mind, calling him back to its harbor. He overlooks this resilient city from an ancient tower, stepping out of the tower to be embraced by the vibrant flowers, a gentle wind caressing his face, the breeze rustling through the branches, making a soft sound. Sunlight dodges among the clouds, dewdrops fall from leaves and are caught by another leaf; all the tenderness makes him determined to kill the once free version of himself and settle here until he passes away. He glimpses the warmth and individuality of every household in the city, children watering his flowers with their innocent and bright smiles, and he still hears the trivial greetings from the old lady next door. Doesn’t he remember everything here? He once dedicated everything to this place, and in return, he received a crown, didn’t he?
I remember, we were once lovers, but later... he was driven out of the city wearing a crown, only to find that this had become the last city in the world, the last city he promised. The swirling dust destroys city after city, leaving only that city which he is no longer allowed to enter; in this world, there is only that city he is not permitted to enter.
Breath of the Wilderness
He walks in the wilderness, the crown on his head teetering, telling tales of his past. The winter days of that second hometown are always filled with swirling yellow sand, yet the city stands firm amidst the sand, while beyond this city, though dust swirls, there has never been color; it is not gray, it is a color that I have never seen, a color that does not exist. Dust enters his lungs, suffocating him; he tries to scream in despair but is filled with sand, unable to open his mouth.
He steps forward, each footfall lacking strength, soundless, neither heavy nor light, stable yet teetering, and the ground is the same. The wind lifts his tattered coat, burrowing into his body without any response. He inhales the dust, neither fast nor slow; he slightly raises his head, gazing at the sun in the sand, the only orange-red light.
I am certain he is still alive. He continues to move forward, each step difficult, each step teetering, with every breath adding a bit more dust to his lungs. He breathes, wanting to stop breathing, yet he still moves forward, searching for the light of the sun, seeking a city that can accept him. He dedicates his frail body to the world; whether the final death is silent or beautiful, let it follow the will of the world.
This article is synchronized and updated by Mix Space to xLog. The original link is https://fmcf.cc/posts/Ode/To-the-World