We don't have to perpetually thrive in our growth. At times, do die away little, and seek solace from the rain.

A few days ago, I mused, "Anxiety in winter feels like frozen pipes in a heavy snowfall up north. The cold blocks the entire pipeline, and even if external forces try to clear it, it will only reveal one section at a time. The specific frozen contents are unknown. Only the pipeline and the flowing things are clear." Perhaps it's the shifting of seasons, but ordinary days seem to unfurl a tapestry of boundless emotions. Coupled with changes in weather and temperature, an irresistible urge sweeps over me to cleanse away the spectrum of emotions, as if using a gentle wire mesh, and await the restorative embrace of blossoming trees and warming sunlight. As winter's days unfold, I find myself lost in contemplation, gazing at the world map, lost in a momentary haze.

Lately, I find myself dreaming less and remembering more. Every time I dream, it involves acquaintances from the past. In my dreams, I often feel like an observer, watching old friends who have long departed appearing in my dreams, silently observing the reconnection between them and the dream version of myself. Yet, nostalgia eludes my grasp, remaining a mere whisper on the edge of my waking thoughts. Only after waking up from each dream, fully conscious in reality, do I vaguely understand: those individuals have etched their names upon my lifeline, at last the paper of memory yellowing with the hues of age, their words fading like ink upon weathered pages, and the paths on which our lives intertwined slowly vanishing. Only the curled page numbers on the final chapter remind me they were once a part of my life.

A few days ago, I came across a line in a poem that said, "Life consumes and covers one another." When I saw it, I empathized and recorded it in my notes. I appreciate the serendipitous connection I feel with certain words, as if encountering someone similar to myself in a crowd. Unlike people, words can be savored slowly, cherished gradually, something rarely found in human encounters. Life is just like that line of poetry—people come and go, intertwining their lives and parting ways in their own unique journeys. We may not know everyone, but everyone we meet leaves a trace in our lives. I am made up of everyone that I loved.

When I write, silence is not my companion; I crave the comforting presence of sound. I put on my headphones and let music play softly, or I listen to podcasts, or even have an old movie playing in the background. I'm not seeking the visuals; it's the sound that keeps me company. The stillness around me calls for some gentle noise.

Sometimes, I find myself hesitating in certain relationships, slowly becoming an observer, striving to maintain clarity while staying true to my own values. People are complex, and even without provocation, they may respond with sharpness. Gradually, I find myself desiring less intricate communication, finding contentment in simple interactions. Maybe I'm just a little timid, but it feels like self-preservation. People find it hard to apologize for their actions.

Perhaps it's the twists in my being that make me hesitant to look back too much. I constantly tell myself to move forward, but there's a fear of seeing my carefully constructed world crumble before me. Yet, there's also a belief that if it does collapse, I have the strength to rebuild it again. It's my way of encouraging myself.

My dear friend, while I always wish for myself to grow toward the sun, but my one remaining belief stays :

We don’t always have to flourish. Occasionally, we can wither, and hide away from the rain. Life, like a mosaic, is meant to be adorned with cracks and holes, that’s where you let the sun shine through.