OUTSIDE THE WINDOW

It’s a night
The sky is pitch black, the sun has long set, and there’s no sign of moonlight.
In the darkness, no single star shines, not even a few sparse bright spots are visible. The earth is draped in a layer of gray sand, hazy and mysterious, like a canvas covered in white cloth, soaked in thick ink, yet everything remains tranquil and serene.
However, at some moment, this somewhat peaceful scene will be shattered, torn into pieces, and both will be truly acknowledged, just silently waiting.
A gust of cold wind blows, bringing a chill.
The black night unfolds like black satin. The sky is dark, devoid of any clouds, as if the entire city is shrouded in a hazy smoke. Through the window, only half of the sky is visible; the other half, the crescent moon hangs like a curved blade, emitting a cold, eerie glow, perhaps with countless stars—yes, one can easily imagine, before seeing it with one’s own eyes, an ideal night sky, a night sky that perhaps only exists in fairy tales, a sky that is so real in every passing moment.
Yet, if that layer of window paper were truly pierced, one might feel that those so-called dreams are as distant from reality as a thousand mountains and rivers apart.
Or perhaps, all of this is just an illusion.
Let’s not dwell on it for now. At this moment, the dim yellow light of the street lamps does seep in from afar.
There are no pedestrians on the street; the street lamps are merely lit for the sake of being lit. A breeze passes by, blowing down dry branches and fallen leaves, the sound somewhat eerie, sending shivers down one’s spine, like a sob choked in the throat, so sorrowful yet powerless to struggle.
The dim yellow light of the street lamps, the swaying shadows of trees outside the window, in the night, sway like ghosts, as if menacing. Yet, it’s neither quite ghostly nor quite alive.
In this silent and dark world, the light inside the window is dim, as if there’s some invisible barrier between night and light, keeping all sources of light outside, leaving only strands of gloom, obscure darkness, despairingly dark.
Below the window is a narrow, shadowy alleyway, pitch black…no, that dark, shadowy alley has gone far from me, perhaps existing only as a phantom in memory.
Everything exists, yet nothing exists anymore, existing in disappearance, existing in birth, existing in existence, but all of this should never have existed.