Days of life

 　　Countless years have passed, many days filled with sunshine and rain, joys and sorrows, partings and reunions. Life feels like a river, a song, a mix of bitterness and happiness.

　　Suddenly, I look up and see the end of life; fear grips my heart, for the past years have long since faded. Looking back abruptly, I see how many seasons have passed, how much sorrow has crept into my heart. I try to calm my mind and reflect. Looking in the mirror, I see a face etched with the marks of time, and a sense of panic begins to creep in. I cannot face it with equanimity; the past days flow by like water. A long sigh is a lament for my life, still on a long march; a long roar is a celebration of my life, for I am still moving forward.

　　Reflecting on the days of my life, I know how much desolation has etched itself beneath my feet, how many hardships have filled the path ahead. Without dwelling on it, without carefully recounting it, I know that in the days of life, there are only three days of memory. Yesterday's memories have become history, a sculpture, existing deep within our thoughts, forever unchangeable. Today's footprints, revealing a hint of searching, will soon be trodden beneath our feet, becoming the yellow sand of memory. Tomorrow hasn't arrived yet; it's like a surging sea, a world of unknowns, full of anticipation.

　　Yesterday, today, and tomorrow—that's our lifetime. There are no exceptions, not even the great, not even the beggar; their time is equal. So, from the moment of birth, everyone's life begins its journey, and everyone's dreams begin to take flight; whether we like it or not, the trajectory cannot be changed. How many days of our own lives can we truly control? Upon reflection, even with passion and boundless aspirations, life still consists of only three days: yesterday, today, and tomorrow.

　　Time's footsteps always have their destination; they will never stop for anyone, nor will they take away sorrow. Life is fleeting; only in retrospect do we realize how hazy it all was. The time beneath our feet is today; but what is today? Is it a river? Is it a dream? A fleeting song? No one knows; time ages us all. What is today, really? Once tender and poignant, yet now I realize this is just the passing of life, a game of time, an addiction to the years. I don't want my life to begin like this, but the days of life are not something I can control, nor can I dictate them.

　　My heart is etched with past wounds; I want to close the door to the days, to let time stand still for me, to let life cease its passing; this moment could be eternal, this moment could let time leave its kiss. Time has not stopped its march, continuing on its own path; and the days of life continue to move forward. The sunlight still begins to ripple; the dew, with its own pearls, also displays a captivating brilliance, also brings joy; the sea tells the wind its heartfelt story; the mountains display their undulating peaks to the earth. But all of these, carrying the yearning of life, braving the biting frost, dance on the carved railings and jade pavilions of life's days.

　　The blooming peach blossoms, overflowing with their fragrance, not only mark the beginning of life but also radiate its charm and beauty. How many spring blossoms truly exist in the days of life? No one knows the exact number. This is not important; what matters is the essence of life: its vibrant energy, its brilliance, its radiance, its splendor.

　　Only by seizing today can we have a glorious beginning.