# listen to the wind

By [raindrop](https://paragraph.com/@raindrop) · 2022-08-30

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The color outside the car window is constantly changing, and a journey is going on. A quiet heart, neither the joy of expectation nor the loneliness of wandering. The wind whistled past the car body, I couldn't catch its sound, and it was so helpless into the twilight, as if it had never passed by.

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![](https://storage.googleapis.com/papyrus_images/650bbec3c0b3777c1179ec38ed3373f31fd02fc860f27d9a06b109eff3efb827.png)

The car was filled with the smell of instant noodles and snacks, and the strong smell was sticky with the turbid air, stuffed in the chest. The small flying insects also seemed to stick to the window, their thin wings drooping down heavily.

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Take out a small notebook and doodle and write "wheat, fields, rivers, green, white snow, expectations, memories, displacement..." There are too many words that I want to tell you. String them together and have to erase one by one. Long and short lines, like scars, covered pages of paper.

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If only I could meet you earlier.

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My former self was sensitive and indifferent, like a lonely little beast, stumbling through the thorny wilderness, stubbornly not saying a word when injured.

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The angels and girls singing under the clear sky are so pure and so beautiful. I can only watch from a distance, unable to touch. The grand and prosperous things that are too bright always make me feel so overwhelmed that I want to escape.

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Empty rooftops, wandering twilight, open hands to catch the invisible wind. It was an infinite time for one person.

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Infatuated with the sunset, the evening wind, the ruined lotus flower, the dove on the bell tower with its back to the dark clouds... I am infatuated with the beauty and sadness of all cold and withered colors. They make me so quiet, so quiet that I'm tearful and unconscious.

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![](https://storage.googleapis.com/papyrus_images/8e96d19c916f58b951be8d32a8c710dd1b822c4b4c76e455449748ff1273dd11.png)

If, at that time, I met you.

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We will be like two lost hedgehogs, meeting in the corner of the frozen mountain for thousands of miles. You are ragged, but your eyes are bright. I will share the stored food with you, tell you the story of every sunny, rainy and windy day, and listen to you every good morning, good afternoon and good night. Then, we will hope that the snow will never stop until the end of the world is covered. We just lost our way in the desolation, our whole life, our whole life.

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But you came so late.

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The snow has melted away, along with those covered lost hearts, vanished without a trace.

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In the reborn world, flowers and rain all have smiles that are so perfect that they are almost empty. There is no longer the free flowing wind, and you can chase to the ends of the earth regardless of your life.

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We are also just looking at each other from a distance, saying goodbye to each other.

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You said, you like the windows of trains. Just looking at the landscapes, they go by so fast, and capturing and remembering with the eyes is the best way to record them.

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I imitate everything about you intentionally or not.

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In my eyes, there is a tile-blue sky, cloudless, and stretches like soft silk for thousands of miles, but the sun is so bright that it is almost swaggering, covering every barren ridge in a mighty manner. The wings of the birds swept over the crossed and separated railway tracks, casting a hurried figure.

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Warm voice, humming "South of the Border" on the radio:

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"When the sun returns to the south of the border where the rain is falling again, I will try to finish the story of that year. When the sun leaves the south of the border that is too sunny again, will you? Return all the love you took away with a smile before saying goodbye."

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I saw branches trembling, a white balloon, in the endless blue sky, looking for white clouds that seemed to never come.

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I know that the wind keeps blowing, even if I can't hear the slightest sound.

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I always have to travel through countless cities, meet countless people, experience countless partings, look up at the sky countless times, from the wind to the twilight, from throbbing to plain, and then from plain to even more plain, to know what I miss. .

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The butterfly flaps its wings, the night rain drenches the bell, the summer tide flows over the embankment of the season, you drop your eyebrows like a midnight gardenia, dreaming of the white fragrance, turning around and taking away the song of the flowering season and the lyre of the rainy season.

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never came back. Only the sun that never fades is left, dipping into my cool and sparse background.

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Since then, time and memory have been whistling like the wind outside the car window, swept away all the pictures of warm, cool, and transparent colors, leaving only the sunshine, stubbornly laying out boundless golden light, shining brightly with sadness.

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The water and the sky are pure, the years are scattered, and the wind is boundless.

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I woke up one day and was shocked to realize that those voices that I desperately wanted to forget were really forgotten just like that.

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*Originally published on [raindrop](https://paragraph.com/@raindrop/listen-to-the-wind)*