Sorrow

 

Recently again, I always feel the sorrow tiding up high to my heart. In the office, on the MTR on/off work, alone in the piano concert, in the hectic street, in my comfy room.

And the sorrow, no more the embellishment to my innocent youth, it is the stains and specks of repeated life, day after day, being exposed in the river of time. So glaring, so terrifying.

The gradual faded passion, gradual vanish baby-fat, gradual ordinary mouth corner, gradual tired eyes, and gradual distant crowds.

Occasionally, on the road, in the lift, upon seeing cute pets and adorable kids, I smiled hard in my heart, at those very moments, endeavor to grab my misty, innocent-used-to-be soul.

Yet I still cry like a mess for stupid chip flick and cartoons, fortunately or unfortunately. However how many crystal tears, which are turned into by the leftover sense of pureness, can I shed?

What an adult world, the reality battle that we trade our youth for the bills, it does not need poets or romanticism, but the fights and killings with red eyes.

The sense of sorrow strides me once again while I was haunted by the thoughts and attacked my inspiration.

-xG.