The Rain of Oblivion

Time settles slowly in the air—like a layer of dust-light, stroked again and again, resting upon a past that has not yet fully cooled.

Fragments of old days drift in the deep of memory, like star-reflections beneath the surface of water: gently wavering, yet refusing to go out.

When the wind passes, it takes away the sharp outlines, leaving only texture and residual warmth, echoing again and again through blankness.

Moments once bright are folded into soft pleats and tucked into the dark pocket of years; now and then, a quiet glimmer seeps out, reminding me they never truly left.

Dusk is always the best hour for remembrance.

Light becomes hesitant, shadows stretch long, and even meaning itself begins to blur.

Unfinished emotions, like a stalled tide, keep testing the edge of the heart-lake—never spilling over, only leaving a low, lingering reverberation.

When night covers everything, memory turns clearer instead.

It is like frost settling on old marks—cold and transparent, impossible to ignore.

Remembrance is not a return, but a kind of stillness: letting what is gone slowly develop in time, recovering its original shape in undisturbed darkness.

When all sounds sink to the bottom and only a breath-like rhythm remains, the past is placed gently, as if properly put away. At the end of silence, remembrance becomes a faint yet enduring light, illuminating the last instant before forgetting.

If Bingganjing faces the future, then Xiwangyu pauses within memory.

Everything in the past once felt so beautiful.

Yellowed photographs hang quietly on the wall, yet thoughts come rushing like a tide, battering every nerve in my mind.

The warmth in my mother's arms feels as if it still lingers; those first unsteady steps gradually became sure.

Days spent with family, one after another, quietly paved themselves into a warm road.

Do you remember the time we camped in the mountains with friends? The campfire flickered, lighting not only the night but also our clumsy, sincere friendship.

Standing by great rivers, staring at the far bank, laughter from catching fish and shrimp mingled with the sound of water.

And that first time crossing by steam ferry—the excitement that nearly overflowed—still trembles softly, deep in my chest.

But none of it can be reached again.

The past did not suddenly abandon me. It simply retreated without a sound, leaving me no time to say goodbye.

Those beautiful memories faded little by little in time; I reached out to grasp them, and caught only blankness.

Whenever I think of this, grief rises like a tide until it is hard to breathe.

If only I could live it once more.

Even if only to walk that old road again, to stand once more by that riverbank, to feel once more the present that I did not know was precious.

But time has no echo.

It leaves only memory, teaching us—through loss—to learn, slowly, how to cherish.

I stood before those photographs for a long time without moving.

The paper has grown tiny ripples; the corners curl slightly, as if resisting time's final erosion.

I know that one day they will fade completely—like so many faces whose features I can no longer recall.

Yet in this moment, they still exist with stubborn insistence.

They exist where I have not yet let go.

Memory does not always arrive as images.

More often, it is a feeling: a chest that suddenly tightens, a pause with no reason, a sourness that rises in the quietest hours of night.

I do not look back on purpose; when the world slows down, the past simply walks out on its own.

I once believed the pain of remembering was caused by loss.

Only later did I understand what is truly unbearable: the happiness I did not recognize at the time.

It was too light.

So light that, while it was in my hands, it had no weight at all; so light that, once it was gone, it could never be carried again.

Night deepened.

Outside the window, wind stirred the shadows of trees, making a sound almost like breathing.

I closed my eyes and let those images sink one by one into the dark.

They were no longer sharp, no longer forcing me back to the past—only resting there quietly, like a river that has been marked, reminding me I once walked along its banks.

Perhaps Xiwangyu lingers in memory not because it refuses to move forward.

But because—someone must remember those moments that have already gone far away, and remember how real they once were.

At last I turned and walked away from that wall.

Not as a farewell.

But to carry them away gently.

Time will not turn back, but I can.

Not to return to the past, but to carry it forward.