Unknown Chaos
To dedicate oneself to the world is the final respect for one's own life, and also the most powerful hymn of praise in this life so far, a song of courage, or perhaps a lamentation of my sorrow.
Only when a writer pushes their spirit to the brink of collapse can they produce the most stunning works, which often bloom with vibrant colors yet reveal a sense of desolation amidst the splendor. Whether it is fate or love and hate, they struggle with the myriad of flowers. The red and purple-black specters clash, indistinguishable between you and me, regardless of day or night, existing eternally until that writer falls, that warrior falls, and only then will one side achieve victory. Or perhaps there is another possibility, the happiness of blooming flowers overcomes the bittersweet sorrow, and the writer attains eternal happiness.
This kind of chaos is playing out within 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 battle this detestable inner demon. Is what I offer to the world my grave or my happiness? In the end, it will all settle.
Photon Phantom
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, filling his lungs. Every breath he takes stimulates his nerves, as physical signals continuously change within him, ultimately reaching his brain. Each breath pulls him into a past illusion, amidst phantoms of light and electricity, 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 the story between him and that city. In older books, everything on the surface of that city is recorded, a gentle, resilient, and grand city, where the melodies he loves resonate 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 echo 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. The gentle wind caresses his face, a breeze rustles through the branches, producing a soft sound. Sunlight hides among the clouds, dew falls from the leaves only to be caught by another leaf. All this tenderness makes him determined to kill the once free version of himself, to settle here until he passes away. He glimpses the warmth and individuality of every household in the city; children water his flowers with their innocent and bright smiles. He can still hear the seemingly insignificant greetings from the elderly neighbor. He remembers everything here, doesn’t he? He once dedicated everything to this place, and in return, received a crown, didn’t he?
I remember, we were once lovers, and 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 final 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, the only city he is forbidden 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. Outside this city, though dust swirls, there has never been color; it is not gray, but a color I have never seen before, a color that does not exist. Dust enters his lungs, suffocating him, and 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. 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 arduous, each step teetering, with every breath adding 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