Rush 匆匆
Swallows may have gone, but there is a time of return; willow trees may have died back, but there is a time of regreening; peach blossoms may have fallen, but they will bloom again. Now, you the wise, tell me, why should our days leave us, never to return? – If they had been stolen by someone, who could it be? Where could he hide them? If they had made the escape themselves, then where could they stay at the moment?
I don’t know how many days I have been given to spend, but I do feel my hands are getting empty. Taking stock silently, I find that more than eight thousand days have already slid away from me. Like a drop of water from the point of a needle disappearing into the ocean, my days are dripping into the stream of time, soundless, traceless. Already sweat is starting on my forehead, and tears welling up in my eyes.
Those that have gone have gone for good, those to come keep coming; yet in between, how swift is the shift, in such a rush? When I get up in the morning, the slanting sun marks its presence in my small room in two or three oblongs. The sun has feet, look, he is treading on, lightly and furtively; and I am caught, blankly, in his revolution. Thus—the day flows away through the sink when I wash my hands, wears off in the bowl when I eat my meal, and passes away before my day-dreaming gaze as reflect in silence. I can feel his haste now, so I reach out my hands to hold him back, but he keeps flowing past my withholding hands. In the evening, as I lie in bed, he strides over my body, glides past my feet, in his agile way. The moment I open my eyes and meet the sun again, one whole day has gone. I bury my face in my hands and heave a sigh. But the new day begins to flash past in the sigh.
What can I do, in this bustling world, with my days flying in their escape? Nothing but to hesitate, to rush. What have I been doing in that eight-thousand-day rush, apart from hesitating? Those bygone days have been dispersed as smoke by a light wind, or evaporated as mist by the morning sun. What traces have I left behind me? Have I ever left behind any gossamer traces at all? I have come to the world, stark naked; am I to go back, in a blink, in the same stark nakedness? It is not fair though: why should I have made such a trip for nothing!
You the wise, tell me, why should our days leave us, never to return?
~By Zhu Ziqing 朱自清, 1898-1948
Credits
- Quote: Thank you Artemis Dreaming
- Image: Global Times
Ah, but they DO return, in our thoughts and memories.
And, yes they do, over and over again. Thank you
‘Tis my pleasure.
If it was the same days returning over and over we would soon get bored. New days coming is what it’s all about.
Yes, I rarely look back unless my mind unilaterally takes me there 🙂
Our life isn’t for nothing no matter the state we come or go, as long as we don’t take what we have for granted and enjoy every moment, keep the fond memories, care and appreciate others that we hold close to our hearts.
Yes, that’s it Kim. On point.
HI, Blessed are those who have the answer. Still searching.
Many of us are Indira…
The time of winter is fast approaching in Colchester, like a thief it is stealing the light, the warmth and the life around me. Everything is falling asleep. It is a time to take stock, and I miss the loss of fine warm days. It is a time of memories, of dreams and plans.
Yes, the time between fall and winter rumbles quickly…
What a beautifully written idea of time and hurry. It’s lovely. Thank you for sharing. And yes, time moves on far to quickly for me as I get older, and my grown up children are noticing too. But in all of this, for once, I can sit back and feel it hasn;t been wasted or ‘lost’, because I did slow down and am mindful of my moments now, so as you all say, I have the memories I can smile at now, or learn from if not! So I realise now I am living my life not surviving it as I once was. Thanks for sharing.
Thank you Julie. And head scratching to think how long ago it was written – and how it still applies today.
So beautifully written, almost elegiac, particularly the sentence, “Like a drop of water from the point of a needle disappearing into the ocean, my days are dripping into the stream of time, soundless, traceless.”. Really makes one step back and take stock….
Yes, Lori, deep waters here and poetic.
An elegy tho to some perhaps an ode to the persistence of time. Magnificent, maddening, and impossible to defy,
You and your friend there with the comment above you. Literary wonders with your comments. Wonder-word-women. Thank you. I completely agree with you and Lori.