你还是那个你，我还是那个我 you are still you, and I — I am still me.

 我曾以为的世界只有眼前一亩三分地，那个时候认为我想象中的童话故事，便是我生而为人的所有价值——是我无法失去的东西。我像是井底被丢弃的枯萎玫瑰依靠着废土中仅有的养分持续着早已死去的魂魄。那个时候的我看着自己的身体经历生命的种种变迁，周围的世界一直在变幻，而唯独我还停留在原地因为我已经不会再生长了。但童话故事，终究是童话故事。故事本身并没有意义，而是我赋予了它无比大的力量，而这个力量让我看到了很多我从未想象过的风景，也让我陷入了我从未体会过的痛苦。我一步步往上爬，明明井底毫无风沙我却不断地向下划，我紧紧的抓住我认为的救命稻草，却没想到这些我曾以为拯救过我的事物在未来的某一天会成为刺刀狠狠的刺向我。而挥舞刀柄的人不是别人，正是我自己。好在如今，我能看到出口的光亮。但时不时地，我依旧想跳回原地，痛觉像是有瘾。越是痛苦的事情，我就越是喜欢去想。我怀念的也许不是过去的故事而是那个垂死挣扎的自己，我不懂人为什么会恋痛。但是我知道世界之大，我知道白云的无意停留并不是蓝天的全部，每一朵白云都不一样，每一分每一秒都在移动。而生命的短暂访问，并不是轮回的全部意义。我们出现在彼此生命中的意义，远远高于我们想象的世界。没有一棵树，会因为掉落了一片叶子而选择完结自己的全部。冬去春来，旧的叶子会离开，新的叶子会冒芽。无论经历过多少变迁，你还是那个你，我也还是那个我。

I once believed the world was no larger than the patch of land before my eyes. In those days, I thought the fairy tales I imagined were the entirety of my worth — something sacred, something I could never afford to lose. I was like a withered rose abandoned at the bottom of a well, drawing what little life I could from the barren soil, sustaining a soul that had long since died.

I watched as my body changed with the seasons of life, the world around me shifting endlessly — yet I remained still, for I no longer grew. But fairy tales are just that — tales. The stories themselves held no meaning, but I gave them power — immense power. And with that power, I glimpsed breathtaking vistas I had never dreamed of. Yet it was also that power that dragged me into depths of pain I had never known.

I climbed, step by step. Though there was no wind or sand at the bottom of the well, I kept swimming downward. I clung desperately to what I believed were lifelines — never knowing that one day, those very things would turn to blades and pierce me. And the hand that wielded the knife — was my own.

Still, now, I can see the light at the mouth of the well. Yet there are moments when I long to return to that place, as if the pain itself has become a kind of addiction. The deeper the sorrow, the more I find myself drawn to it. What I miss, perhaps, is not the past — but the version of me that was gasping, struggling, barely alive. I do not understand why we fall in love with pain, but I do know this: the world is vast. The fleeting pause of a drifting cloud is not the whole of the sky. Each cloud is different, each second in motion. And the brief crossing of our lives is not the whole of rebirth.

The meaning of our presence in each other’s lives is greater than the world we can imagine.

No tree ends its story over the fall of a single leaf. Winter passes, and spring returns. Old leaves fall away, and new ones unfurl. No matter how many seasons we endure, you are still you, and I — I am still me.