The Blooming Flower of Fate
The Blooming Flower of Fate
Oh flower, you bloom and wither, yet the year after withering, you bloom once more; oh jade tree, where light and warmth intertwine, year after year weaving new memories; oh seasons, frozen then blooming, blooming into hundreds of summers, hundreds of millions of dreams. My life, like this flower, this tree, these seasons, cycles round and round, withering then blooming, and now it is time to bid farewell to this cycle.
Here, I drain the last of my writing talent, year after year; here, you let your lifelong learning bloom beautifully, time and again. Whether I or you, we come here to weep over our failures, to rail against the injustice of fate, and also to celebrate our successes, to praise the greatness of love. What we praise is not only a mother's love, nor is what we sing merely the power of life. You observe every detail of this world, good or bad, and pour them out here in my way. I came from contradiction—where am I to go?
Under fate's torment and praise, hot tears streak down my cheeks, each drop carrying my pain and joy, struggling, crying out, sobbing, falling silent, and finally, discovering me. I ask the sages of old, where should I go? The sages answer me with great waters and great mountains. The great waters surge and flow; I step forward to question them, but they flow away into the distance. I shout at the great mountains, but they remain silent, not a single word for me.
I travel upstream, and along the way there is no gentle stream, no tranquil forest—only howling gales and raging waves. Countless times I am knocked down by the wind, countless times I doubt the sages' answer, until I change my direction. The gale that once crushed me becomes my ally. I steer a small skiff down the river toward the sea, and those torrential, arrogant waters become gentle, so gentle, beneath this little boat, nurturing generations upon generations of children. This is the sages' "supreme good is like water," and this is what I have come to understand: "when the tree desires stillness, it makes peace with the wind."
Having understood why the sages answered me with great waters, I step into the mountains, seeking the reason they answered me with great mountains. Deep within these silent mountains, this forest that seems lifeless from afar, dwell thousands of animals, tens of thousands of insects, and it nurtures countless sources of life-saving water. Surely this is why the sages answered me with great mountains—loving in silence, nurturing infinite life.
At last, I have discovered myself—a self as vast as great waters, as steadfast as great mountains. But a new question follows: now that I finally understand who I am, to whom do I show this self?
You are a demon, tormenting me in purgatory. Looking back at my past self, I never praised or sang of you. You tortured me until I was bruised all over; I was powerless to resist, longing to escape this painful purgatory. I was never disappointed in you, because I never had hope. You raised the long whip of love, striking my flesh; you used the shackles of love to imprison my soul. I could not escape; I could only hide in deep mountains, leap into the waves, and find a lonely corner to silently wipe away my tears. Family, why are you not my gentle harbor, but my purgatory instead?
I pour everything out here. I weep to you; you listen to my story, bearing all my pain with your thin body. Paper, with my pen I tell you, bit by bit, the wounds I suffered in my family. Can you answer my confusion? Paper is unlike the mountains' abundance; it merely shows me its pure white form. Paper, too, is silent like the mountains, quietly waiting.
Perhaps you are waiting for me to explore, but you are not mysterious like the mountains, nor turbulent like the waters. You silently show me everything, laid bare, with nothing left for me to seek. I lie upon your body, letting my tears fall drop by drop. The tears soak you, and though I wipe them away, you cannot be restored. The colorless tears take on my color, becoming ink, tracing a line across your body. I trace line after line, and suddenly they become words, reflecting that self as vast as waters and mountains. This is your answer.
I write my heart and soul upon your body and present you to that demon. The demon, too, sheds tears, and the tears wash the demon clean, revealing its true form—a pure white angel with shining feathers. Angel, I wronged you before; now I see you clearly, and in the future I will sing your praises. I showed you my true form, and at last you revealed your own. You have finally become my harbor—no, you have always been my harbor, sheltering me with great fatherly and motherly love, waiting for my wings, shining like yours, to grow full, and then to soar.
At last, I have shown myself to my family, proven myself, and I have discovered my true form. My cold heart has finally grown warm, blazing like the sun. To whom should I give this excess warmth?
The cold world kills everyone in despair; the generous world carries every life upon its shoulders; the complex world weaves everything into a vast web. In such a world, how many people, less tragic than Xianglin's Wife yet still dying in despair, how can my pure heart bear it? I deeply reject this world.
The tears of the despairing soak the earth; my tears mourn for the pitiable people of this world. How to save them torments me, tossing and turning. I ask the sages again, but they do not answer. I ask the paper, and it grudgingly shows itself. Everything is cold and silent.
When all the world falls silent, my blazing heart does not cool. I choose to step into society in my own way. With pen and paper, I commemorate lives, writing of insignificant dust. I struggle against the cold society, saving every life I can save. Where there is a bit of my light, I give a bit of my warmth. I have always been on this path, and I have met others with equally blazing souls. We have all known pain, and because of it, we yearn all the more to help others break free from it—like Shi Tiesheng, who saved countless people with disabilities like his own, warming this society with his own light. At last, I have truly become part of this society.
Our tears, drop by drop, watered a flower of fate; our passion, bit by bit, warmed a flower of fate. This flower of fate, mine alone, has finally bloomed under this tears and passion! Its branches and leaves are lush, showing its breathtaking beauty to me, to my family, to society.
And here, it must come to an end, just like 2023. I came from contradiction, struggling against myself, my family, society, and fate—until the struggle itself became a blooming flower, a flower that blooms in every season. Fate has finally bloomed for me, and the exquisite flower of fate is in full bloom.