Chapter 672: January 9: The Little Pink Flower's Dream

January 9: The Little Pink Flower's Dream

January 9: The Little Pink Flower's Dream

Fog, heaven and earth are muddled?, vast and sprawling, regardless of high or low, up or down, all things in heaven and earth without exception cannot see their true faces. People in the fog explore and seek their future, their destination.

Walking in the fog, no one can see the mundane world clearly, nor can they see through it. They think the mundane world is the fog, and the fog is the mundane world. Those who rush toward their future in the fog would do well to follow others' footprints, walk the paths others have taken. For only thus will they not encounter obstruction and go astray....

Fog, it disguises all forms, colors, and external beauty. In the fog, space and time cannot be seen; in the fog, 'every leg of my journey is all the journey,' including past, present, and future. And 'the past' is merely a bygone time that never returns, while 'the future' is an age I could never possibly reach. But 'the present,' I have realized, each moment before my eyes contains all of time, including the past that was anticipated, hoped for, dreamed of, achieved, confirmed, and I especially cherish the present. I am especially great foolishness and clumsiness, not great wisdom or skill.

Fog, it continues to spread between heaven and earth. In the fog, I am on my destined journey, 'a simple boat and straw sandals, wandering freely among mountains and rivers, mingling with woodcutters,' carefully and cautiously probing ahead: climbing the mountains I must climb in my life, crossing the obstacles I must cross, stepping on the thorns and mire I must tread, walking the path I must walk.........

"A waning moon hangs upon the sparse paulownia; the dripping water clock cuts off people's initial Stillness. Who sees the recluse coming and going alone? The faint, solitary shadow of a lone goose. Startled, it turns back, yet no one knows its sorrow. Having searched all the cold branches, it refuses to perch; the lonely sandbar is cold." But now I am in the fog, I cannot see the waning moon hanging on the paulownia; I feel that the sky is very cold, that I am in the early spring mist.

In this cold early-spring mist——————

I still remember a kind of extremely tiny pink flower that once bloomed; it is still blooming now, but it is in a desolate wilderness, unknown to anyone for how beautiful its fragrance and color are; moreover, no one knows that in this cold mist it is dreaming: dreaming of spring's arrival, with butterflies dancing wildly around it, bees singing spring verses beside it, and also dreaming........

Although, in this cold early-spring mist, the little pink flower, frozen red and miserable, shivers and trembles.