The Peach Blossoms Gleam Beautifully Like This – Who Can Stay with You Through Spring Forever?
Young readers asked me, 'What do I do if I fall in love with someone I shouldn't?' He is a rising star in this era of utilitarianism. People are born for fame and live for profit. It's hard to say whether such a person can have love. But he proposed to me. However, without love, how can we guarantee the quality of a marriage? Without quality marriage, what is the meaning of existence?
Yes, what is love anyway?
In the twilight of life, a thousand years ago, the willows were newly sprouted, the peonies were in full bloom. The lady in a pale robe stood at the door, the crimson peonies on the wall were dimmed. She was asking, she was thinking, she was gazing: What is love?
From youthful hair to snowy white, a drop of love tears has soaked through time page by page, year by year, month by month.
She lived for him, hated him, waited for him at the door, withered for him, aged her beauty, mourned for him, cried a thousand years, a lonely tomb guarded faithfully. A thousand years later, this love poem she wrote for him as she was dying still pricked my heart – endlessly yearning, but not yearning with resentment. A thousand years ago, on a spring night, the moonlight was like a falling bluebird, and another one like me, used blood as ink, used love as a knife, wrote her and his unwavering love and devotion into clay, and published it on a blue-and-white porcelain pot.
Two chessboards, both lost.
Stopped halfway through a song, but forgot the rest.
I casually flipped through a few books. On the pages, a word and another word were blank, but clearly written were eight characters: 'Long-term relationships grow, transactional relationships wound.'
Yes, like spring flowers that bloom and fade, autumn leaves turn golden and fall. While silent, persistent leaves eventually welcome summer. Just as those who pursue profit will one day tire, will one day understand, will stop chasing gains, will wait for the spring when the peach blossoms are in full bloom, and hold onto a love that lasts a lifetime.
Just like the lady in a pale robe, standing in the wind. Her 'he' had experienced countless years of vicissitudes, seen countless worldly affairs, but still, on that spring night, when peach blossoms bloomed, he was captivated by her, looked at her with a single glance. Red leaves, hibiscus flowers, the willow tree, the flowering quince, the Wutong tree, the Camellia, how many tragic and profound histories, how much depth and weight, could not conceal his sincere heart?
Perhaps, when you meet him, he is in his prime. Along the way, he's carried on with ease, filled with fragrance, how many people have flocked to him. Your sincere heart, he doesn't see it.
But you, you've lost your heart, lost your soul. How do you bear the distance and the loss?
White Rabbit died, Black Rabbit died. There is him on the chessboard.
Winter turns to spring, he is there in the seasons.
He is the fresh green of the sprouting willow buds, the shimmering of the blooming peonies. He is air, sunlight, water – he is breath – enduring through time. How intense can it be? You just want to die for it.
Yes, young lovers hate to let the whole world know, full of passion and torment. But you, even in your dreams, are afraid people will know. Pursuing fame and fortune, you are like a pure young woman who only lives for two or three ounces of dignity. Your learned father, lived a lonely life; your delicate, fragrant mother, lived in poverty. You only want, from beginning to end, a simple happiness and a simpler life.
You never appear in front of him, you just watch from afar, watching him in the halls of fame and fortune, watching him in the morning light and the evening glow. He speaks of the books he read in his youth, and the dreams he had in college. You mention that poem, written on a blue-and-white porcelain pot in Tang Dynasty, which has been loved for a thousand years. You said, 'Born in the Tang Dynasty, written on a blue-and-white porcelain pot.'
He looked at you, his gaze deepened and deepened.
You looked at him, quietly and softly, like a lotus flower in the late winter field.
He finally said nothing.
You said nothing either.
The two of you, separated by a distance – this is the result you wanted. This desperate, clinging love, only lived, lived, and died in your heart, only existed in your own mind, only existed in your own heart.
You said your story was over. But I'm not satisfied. I want a more romantic ending – no matter what, as long as you've given your heart, as long as you've loved, you shouldn't be denied.
At this moment, the afternoon sun was dazzling on the peach blossoms on the branches. I gently told you: Twenty years from now, the spring sun will be just as fresh as this moment, and you will receive a package. The blue-and-white porcelain pot and the poem on it: 'He was born before me, I was born before he aged. He hated me for being born late, I hated him for being born early.' It's not just your story; it's his story too. Perhaps you'll sit together, gently brushing your fingers, playing this two-act song, the two of you, your white hair and his white hair intertwined, long and continuous – how wonderful that would be!
Yes, pursuing fame and fortune is your choice, holding onto love and devotion is also your choice.
At this moment, the wind was running across the grasslands, the peach blossoms blooming from south to north in sequence. The spring flowers were fragrant as snow, and you were like a fresh lotus flower in the late winter field.
Some say that ideals should exist; if they do, why don't we realize them? Just like, love should be believed; if we do, why don't we find it?
Ciyun:
Skilled in essays, good at commentary. Focused on family education, writing tutoring, big language teaching exploration and traditional classic reading promotion.
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