A bullet

A bullet

The air was infused with the silence of winter, unresting. A dim wisp of warm, yellowish light shined upon the room at dawn. The gray cement floor illuminated traces of broken boards. With a lazy breathe I slowly exhaled a mouthful of taste of toothpaste from yesterday. Rubbing the eyes that had been stung by the morning sun, I reluctantly swung my hands in the chilly air and put on my favorite scruffy shirt.

Not noticing that winter had silently creeped upon me, I saw the last piece of leaf wilt before my eyes.

The last leaf of winter awaited the spring. I looked up and saw its eyes filled with tears of happiness. When it fell quietly I suddenly thought of you and your gentle face. I did not want to say goodbye, nor did you. I longed to be at your company and exchange small vows with god that we would never be separated.

Let me be at your side in the coldest seasons and we would wait for spring.

No one was able to rewind time to appreciate everything that they had missed. They could only stay in stained photos and set foot on a certain point in time. They were dead. There was no hope of resurrection. Memory is dormant. Memory is solid. Our future is filled with the unknown and expectations.

I thought to myself repeatedly, what was to become of us when we die? That inevitable moment of death. How would it feel? Do we merely close our eyes and rest? Will there be pain? As I thought of these I entered the dream I had woven for us.

In this dream everything seemed familiar. It was a mirage that seemed somehow bizarre and disturbing. I felt the passage of time in the air of uncertainty. I was aware that this was only a dream but what of reality? At the precise moment of when we die we wake up from our dreams. Is that so?

Today, perhaps, deep down in my bones, I am not a materialistic person.

Is death painful?

Then, what is pain anyways?

Pain is a wonderful creature. It transforms fuzziness into clarity, it sharpens what is blunt. Through pains we endure, the feelings of love become clear and sharp. The sense of existence had always rose from pain. The sense of security had always been standing next to numbness.

I say, pain is the sharp sting you feel from the sensations of the iced water you gulp with greed right after lunch. That I can call pain.

Perhaps this is only a form of physical pain. It is the pain from the heart that truly stings.


空气中还是夹杂着冬日的沉寂和骚动。在清晨的一缕缕暗黄的光线照进房间,在灰色的水泥板地上映现出一块一块破碎的痕迹。操着慵懒的口气慢慢的呼出一口带着昨日牙膏味道的口气。揉揉已经被阳光刺痛的双眼,不情愿的掏出双手, 在带着丝丝凉意的空气中缓缓的把衬衫穿起。














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