Days of Reflection

"The unexamined life is not worth living." — Socrates

Writing begins today.

Five days late, but what does it matter; for life is still long, is it not?

Even if the day we started wasn't anything particularly special.

To the boys on the cusp of adulthood.

You have your own life, your own dreams and convictions, your health, and your joy. When this world seems to belong to you, go forth—live and dedicate yourself to it.

For isn't it true that once you dream of doing something, it feels as though everything is conspiring with you to make it happen? Whenever you need the truth, let us wait for it together.

You may not always have the closest family or friends to walk beside you through the hardest times, but as long as you still think of me, then keep on dreaming.

I promise to be there whenever you pause to think.

Yours sincerely.

It is a joy that you are still here.

Change often arrives with such suddenness. Usually, in the wake of those moments, all I see in you is a look of regret.

I intended to learn how to get used to it. You need not—and truly should not—criticize yourself. Is there really anything you must blame?

Change alone is not the most terrifying thing. That you might possess a warm heart and a cool head is always precious, whether you are a person of reason or emotion.

If you wish to wait for me, do not look back. For do you know? I only want to stand beside you, watching you work. Your passion feels almost like my own excitement.

Perhaps you have a fondness for breaking the mold.

Yes, to the man of introspection. I do not think you are hateful, nor have I seen you differ much from those outside; for at least there is no contradiction. To live loving yourself and perhaps transforming your life into something beautiful—isn't that what you are doing?

If your day is stripped of what you love, it will feel as long as life itself, not merely a month or a year.

But a successful year or month of yours—whether in the present, past, or future—when looked back upon, will seem as brief as a single day.

Only life itself remains—and no one thinks of it purely as success or failure.

Do not silently blame yourself or judge another. If you want the bad to turn good, then simply think towards the good.

I look at the moon I’ve drawn, and it is as if the Sun is right there.

At home, there are days when the sky is so beautiful it should only be gazed upon, not sketched or captured by a camera.

I have fallen in love with the moonlight in the corner of the sky. Sitting on the steps, looking out the door, I see the moon, full and whole, as if illuminating my soul. The moon only glows against a mystical, cloudy sky; from the mountain ridge downwards, one sees only a realm of darkness punctuated by a few scattered lights.

Is this the romantic picture, or is life inherently as monotonous as it seems?

Perhaps it is not as dull as we imagine. One must travel to those places beyond the horizon to truly love this place, which we once found so boring. Life holds beauties like materials for painting a reality worth experiencing, right before the eyes of the foolish and the reckless.

What can we do with this life, I wonder?

I often find it easier to love and empathize with someone, though perhaps criticizing or detesting them would be far simpler.

I love your personality and hope you never change yourself, even when there are times you make me sulk. I once loved with such innocence, wanting to place all my faith and affection in you; now I still hold that feeling, but perhaps it has become a love for myself even more. Is it true—that I hate your personality yet do not want you to change? If back then I had possessed more experience, would you have believed in some difference? Perhaps, to love or hate someone without needing a pile of reasons, one should say that somewhere, a corner of the heart has grown heavy. That I will say I want to love you because you are you; or is it that I ceased needing you at some point, just as we have no need for two egos?

Sometimes, while chatting together and busily searching for some miracle passing by, I suddenly turn to you. I only want to say: look at me here and silently tell me what you think of me. You are innocent with me, just as you are. In those moments, you often talk about everything in life. In your world, there are young friends attached to you whom I also secretly cherish; and as for you, as easily as you get close to someone, you seem just as prone to disliking them. I would surely be very moved if I knew how much you understood and sympathized with me. But if we were no longer attached, would we still cherish and treasure these moments? Since then, just recalling the times we talked, would you silently blame me if you knew you had just lost something? The affection you have for me or your friends often arrives so rationally. If we no longer share the same vibrations in rhythm, perhaps the road we just walked is no longer long, and I suddenly feel my heart is no longer heavy. So after those segments of the journey, from the moment we suddenly began to turn our separate ways, who was the one who changed?

If my life consisted only of myself and you, would the experiences still be this interesting? We are defined not just by who we love, but by the world we witness together. If we turned our backs on the chaos, would our peace be meaningful, or merely empty? I think we need the friction. We need the noise to understand the silence.

I realized today that I am carrying old keys to doors I no longer wish to open. Grudges, regrets, "what-ifs"—they are heavy in the pocket. I sat by the river and imagined throwing them in, one by one. The key to the house of "should have been." The key to the room of "not good enough." The water flowed on, indifferent. That is the lesson of the river: it does not hold onto anything. It just goes.

Ten days. A blink of an eye, yet an eternity of thought. I return to the world tomorrow. The emails are waiting. The noise is waiting. But I am not the same person who left. I am quieter. I am slower. I have filled the reservoir. We do not reflect to escape the world; we reflect to return to it with better eyes. The diary closes, but the life opens.

Back then, I used to think this life was long enough to memorize the names of people arriving from distant horizons. Turns out, that was just a pipe dream. I like to simply sit and watch my friends, silently guessing at who they are. Growing older, I planned to build a dream of rolling wheels on long journeys, to see the world more broadly and meet interesting people. In difficult times, I only silently hoped everything would pass quickly so I could experience more; now, before new trips, I only know how to smile and tell myself that I, too, have moments of fear. After the upheavals, perhaps it is new experiences and lessons that make me mature, not age or appearance. Those are the greatest assets I have accumulated. Often, if there is a chance to test myself with new things, I suddenly think about who I was then and how I think now, and wonder if there will ever be another opportunity like that?

I have a dream, that there will never be a time when I carry the feeling of one who has been discarded; because after all these years, perhaps there is no longer cynicism or weariness in me, but rather love and my own pure soul. Even a quiet person has a heart somewhere, do they not? If I felt that I was reduced to nothing but a physical body, would anyone come here and take my heart and throw it away? Since then, after all the affections, I no longer fear the feeling of not trusting myself with the same attitude as the people I trust and love. Hey me, don’t give up on everything, but think first. Hey me, I also used to cry after those moments of anger, but why did I choose to feign ignorance before myself and everyone like that? Because I told myself I was always trying. I only fear the times when I am no longer in time to do the things I once desired. And I only wish there would be times when those things are acknowledged.

From the days of innocence, I practiced doing things and failing and trying again. As I grew, I remained much the same; come to think of it, what is there to blame? I didn’t intend to blame myself anyway. And you, the long life ahead of you will open up so many opportunities to learn. If I lack determination, I am merely standing with my feet tied, and that is like a step backward. I tell myself, don’t let the times I stumble be seen by too many people. But there are also times when I don’t mind at all—but let’s not talk about that yet. I should focus on training and creating progress. And then I also secretly wish that beside me there are carefree people with a spirit of advancement, walking with me a little more steadily. Because I hate myself when I step off the path. So I must be determined. Hey, is anyone there? Why am I still not done being eccentric?