At that time, on the nights enveloped by dampness, silence, and insomnia, he lay in bed listening to the chirping of insects and the sound of the air conditioner, and the world he saw was absurd. He felt like he had entered Kafka's castle, being repeatedly driven away for inexplicable reasons, toiling endlessly. He saw himself as Sisyphus, pushing the rock up the hill step by step. He had to persevere, to resist this absurdity. And this process was so boring, so powerless. He hated himself for it, with no answers for the world.
Later, this imagery changed. Now he saw himself walking in the darkness, carrying a lantern, moving towards an indescribable goal, perhaps beyond his own understanding. Sometimes, lovely people who briefly intersected with him walked alongside, maybe talking and encouraging, maybe silent, until their encounter ended and each continued in different directions. Other times, he could hear the voices of his friends nearby, see a flickering light. The imagery of people lighting their way along different paths in the dark night was so beautiful that it brought tears to his eyes whenever he thought of it.
Then, when he occasionally overcame difficulties, or on a clear day, he felt like a tree, striving to take root in the soil, growing continuously.
And now, these images gradually disappeared from his mind. He saw himself finally standing firmly on the ground, freely choosing a direction, step by step. No, even these words are not accurate. Because what he saw was not the dark night, nor the bright day, but several days of sunshine and several days of lingering rain. What he saw was his own life itself. Those beautiful metaphors lost their truth in his heart.