Life is like an arrow

 　　One evening at sunset, I was preparing dinner in the kitchen. Looking out the window, I saw the setting sun hanging high above the tall cedar trees in the nearby park, casting an orange glow on the lake below. The beauty was alluring, and I remembered my promise to a friend to photograph the park's paths. So I took off my apron, quickly changed, slipped on my shoes, and rushed downstairs, hoping to capture this beautiful scene before the sun dipped below the horizon. However, as I ran out the door, crossed the street, and reached the park entrance, the large, beautiful sunset had already mercilessly disappeared into the branches of the trees. I hurried towards the path, trying to press the shutter before it set, but I was defeated. By the time I raised my camera, it had already mercilessly sunk into the lake, leaving only a glimmer of light. After a brief pause, that light also vanished, and darkness quickly swallowed everything around me. Frustrated, I was once again deeply struck by how merciless time is, how quickly it passes! This image has been haunting me ever since, filling me with unease. While I drift aimlessly through the days in my room, oblivious to the passage of time, the blazing sun, relentlessly marching day and night, will soon carry me to the other side of life. And I, perhaps still dreaming, slowly planning my journey, singing the old tune of "tomorrow and tomorrow," accomplishing nothing.

　　Life is like an arrow; I vaguely sensed it when I was very young. I always remember the Spring Festival of 1975, kneeling on the armchair in my old home, looking at the calendar my brother hung on the wall above the low table, silently thinking, "It's New Year's Day." Perhaps I had just learned to look at such things then, or had just developed a sense of time, but the impression was profound. And from then on, every Spring Festival, I would see a brand new calendar hanging there. The New Year came so quickly; every year that followed was New Year's Day, and before it even became the old year, it was already over.

　　I graduated from high school, already seventeen, no longer a child. When I have nothing to do, I can't stand on a street corner watching passersby, nor can I chatter and laugh loudly with my girlfriends in crowded places, and I certainly can't chase each other around in the street anymore. Oh, I'm grown up. At twenty, I've already started working, and I have to be reserved and composed in front of students, learning to speak in a teacher's tone. I also have to take on all the responsibilities at home; in a few years, I'll be married and have to be able to do everything for my husband's family. I'm getting married; I'm so grown up. At thirty, I'm no longer young; those brightly colored clothes no longer suit me. At forty, I'm getting old, looking in the mirror, searching for fine wrinkles at my temples… Now, looking back, how naive I was at seventeen or eighteen, how vibrant I was at twenty, how youthful I was at thirty, how charming I was at forty, and now, my youthful beauty has faded…

　　Life is like an arrow, years flow like a river, time surges like a tide, and the rings of time are like a knife. The playmates I used to play with as a child are now unrecognizable. Last year, when I returned to my hometown, I ran into several childhood friends. The young Fang, with her two long braids, was a completely different person from the dark-skinned, stout, and disheveled old woman before me, with droopy eyelids and graying hair. The thin, wrinkled old man with sparse hair claimed to be Xiao Bin, the mischievous, clever, and lively boy from our class. Another one insisted I identify her, but after looking at her for a while, I was embarrassed and couldn't recall her name either. In the relentless flow of time, we are eroded, sculpted, and altered. Who can resist with reason? Who can escape being swayed and overturned?

　　The arrow of life has been shot since birth, and there's no turning back. We can only keep running forward. Time may not age us, but it does. Only by chasing the sun like Kuafu, pouring the sweat of struggle into the pulse of time, painting each pure day into a vibrant picture, cutting it into a rich memory, and chasing the setting sun, can we make our finite lives shine with eternal color.

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