Author Elaine Huang; Yuxi Edited
The weather forecast has been blank for several days.
Gently probing the glass window with my fingers, sleet covers it. At the moment it touches my fingertips, it seems to sprout between decay. The wind probes, brushing through the gauze curtain, lifting the sharp bangs, flipping through time frozen on the blank sheet dated 'Oct. 8th'. Stirred by the wind, I subconsciously lift the white paper.
The crayons, hidden deep in the drawer, are reluctantly drawn from their sanctuary. They move back and forth in vibrant colors but never settle. The sticky gray is eventually pressed onto the paper, and the childish crayon moves. Under the island-like dark clouds, I draw a white line. The line is invisible on the white paper, but subconsciously, I tell myself that when seen through the light, I can clearly catch a glimpse of that light; the appearance of that line.
The light is like him, the white line is like me.I see the light, but the light doesn't reach me.
I put on my headphones, cutting off from the world.
I tear apart the weather forecast.