Nothing is more beautiful than sharing a drink across the table; nothing is sadder than the coldness left behind when someone is gone.
The wind has risen again.
Windy days seem made for poets. The wind tosses hair into disarray, and with it the heart that was supposed to stay calm. A group of children runs past in laughter, chasing one another through the gusts, and before I know it I am thinking about the years when we, too, were running after our own dreams.
Long ago, we were not much different from those children. A windy day alone could make us so happy that we forgot everything else. The games we played back then feel as if they have already been buried under the dust of history: rolling iron hoops, spinning tops, yo-yos, toy racing cars, handheld game consoles. It took so little to hold so much joy.
I still remember my primary school years. Every day on the way to school, I would wait by the roadside for the bus. Before it arrived, a whole cluster of us would turn any empty patch of ground into a playground. No matter how much time passes, I cannot forget that idea of playing until we were covered in scrapes and bruises. We were simple then—lighthearted, unguarded, happy. We all believed life would continue like that: primary school, middle school, university. We thought only our age would change. Much later, we learned what it really means for the world to remain while the people in it do not.
People often say that those who love nostalgia are simply getting old. Maybe that is true. We grow older day by day, and with each day we remember more. If nothing had ever slipped from our hands, how could we understand the need to cherish what is still with us?
So we leave. We travel far from home, heading east, west, south, north. We drift toward unfamiliar cities, and the moment we arrive, loneliness is already waiting for us. Only after growing up do we realize that life must first stand on survival.
I still think of my closest friend. We once promised each other that when we grew up, we would live in the same city. Then came the college entrance exams: he went south, and I came north. At the time, both of us felt as though life had betrayed us. In truth, we were only too naive.
Life played its tricks on us, and we grew disappointed in it. Then came something called experience. It taught us to be cautious everywhere, to watch every step, to move carefully no matter where we went. Little by little, our defenses strengthened until they rose like walls. In the end, each of us built a city around ourselves. Once that happens, others cannot easily come in, and we cannot easily find our own way out.
And yet life is not cruel without pause. Sometimes it lets us smile without warning—someone in the crowd looks so much like a person we once knew. Sometimes it lets us dream that the friends around us are still like the friends of childhood, that we can say anything, hide nothing, speak without restraint.
But when the dream breaks, we understand. Different surroundings shape different lives; different experiences give rise to different thoughts. And so we slowly learn how to perform for the occasion, how to adapt ourselves to a strange city. The price, however, is real. Pretending, being worldly, saying things we do not mean, doing things we cannot refuse—those quiet pains are ours to bear alone.
When I look at the people passing on the street, I cannot help thinking that each of them must be carrying a story. Perhaps each has once sat beneath flowers or moonlight, sharing a drink with an old friend. Perhaps each has also known that colder hour, when the wind is thin and the moon is fading, and all that remains is the loneliness after the warmth is gone.
Ten thousand people, ten thousand inner worlds—each one a solitary city.