Like the Tuberose

Like a night jasmine, I gaze at this world in wonder.

So much sorrow, tears, anguish, drama, hurt, love, desire—all strung together on a single thread.

Everything will come to life in turns.

But here's the trouble: growing accustomed to tears and anguish early in life, everything eventually feels like theater—hurt, love, or desire can no longer touch someone like me, a night jasmine.

And then, driven purely by the need to survive, I become so practiced in love and desire that I forget what hurt even means.

I can no longer feel that there's a kind of happiness in receiving tears and anguish, a kind of joy.

All the world's rules seem absurd these days. I've been caught in this confusion for ages—whether I can't comprehend the world, or the world can no longer accept me.

The most astonishing thing is that despite all this conflict with myself, all this inner strife, the world doesn't erase me—it still holds me to its chest.

And despite all my accumulated grievances against the world, I still bloom each day like a night jasmine!