My Alleged Husband-Chapter 896 - 829: The Incomparable Human Heart (Extended - )_12
I love the myriad lights glowing in the darkness of night; they always give me a sense of stability and warmth. Yet, I fear the piercing headlights cutting through the night; I instinctively raise my hands to shield my eyes, feeling so helpless. Truly, I am the most conflicted person—I keep thinking over and over about how I can continue to live a happy and fulfilling life. During the day, I rarely find peace, but apart from being quiet, we hardly have any other state. I always try to strip away everything buried deep in my heart, as if by stealing them away. Through the wide glass, I can see the tranquil sky outside. For the longest time, I believed that I was the loneliest thing in the sky, because it is so vast that no one could ever hear its emotions, nor could anyone ever hear the words it speaks to her. It just stands there silently, occasionally throwing a tantrum with thunder and rain. In the moments of my deepest pain, I like to stare at the sky—for a very long time—because I hope the tears welling up in my eyes will foolishly roll back inside. I also have a habit of sitting on the floor in a daze, holding a cup brimming with water in my hand. When I drink, I can hear the sound that my throat makes—it’s like the rhythmic typing on a keyboard in the computer screen, a sound so captivating. Yet time and again, I use such methods to numb myself, and in the end, what do I really gain? I can’t let go of the prejudices entrenched deep in my heart. There was a period when I wondered what I’d look like waking up in the middle of the night. Gradually, I found myself sleepwalking, wandering to the lakeside. I dreamt of jumping into the lake and drowning. At that very moment, the fear overwhelmed me—I was terrified I’d never wake again. I wished my parents would come back to save me, to give me just a sliver of support. But in the end, I gained nothing at all.
Do you know? Again and again, in the dead of night, I wake up and sit on the edge of the bed, listening to the cacophony of rain outside. In the air, the scent of countless water molecules mingles with the humble fragrance rising from the earth. I feel as though I am perched atop a drifting leaf, gliding silently like a buffalo wades through a stream—just like my time, quietly flowing without a sound. Sometimes, I go to the living room to look at the fish my grandfather keeps. When I see them lying still, they remind me of an elegant silken fabric. On cold days, condensation builds up outside the fish tank, forming droplet after droplet. I watch those droplets grow bigger and bigger, sliding down in erratic paths, stubbornly convinced those are the tears of the fish. I cherish the radiant daylight and its gentle breezes; within them, I can hear the sound of falling leaves, can even feel the sound of flowers. Over and over, I think about the ending my inner self most yearns for, as if imagining everything unfolding right in front of me. Who could possibly understand such a feeling?
During my grueling mountain training, I saw the hills blanketed in pale yellow daisies. I also marveled at the flame-red azaleas painting the landscape—a scene of endless green waters and verdant mountains. Beyond these, there were kites, those vibrant yellows carried high into the heavens by the breeze. Even as I grew up, I remained enamored with the wind, because the ethereal freedom in it was something truly worthy of envy.
But later, through others’ explanations, I slowly, gradually stopped connecting with these scenes. Yet I still love the wind. In this city, as I transformed bit by bit into part of the concrete jungle, gazing at those so-called earthen hills—I truly could no longer call them mountains. The honest, profound joy that nature once brought me had vanished, replaced entirely by sorrow. All the things on my apartment rooftop had disappeared, including what my grandfather had gifted me. Sometimes, I see the dandelions he gave me drifting onto my windowsill, embodying a kind of solitude—a solace amidst loneliness. I think of the life of dandelions as a state of great enlightenment: to wander in loneliness without complaint or regret. Perhaps I can barely manage the "without complaint," but the state of having "no regret" is destined to remain far from my reach. When twilight falls and black winds surge from all directions, I sit quietly alone in the courtyard, contemplating all the paths I’ve wanted to walk. I’m truly afraid, because I do not know what attitude I should adopt to face the rest of my life.
