Severed, Yet Tied
藕断丝连
In this garden, there is only a burgeoning wilderness; not a single tree grows.
Six years, three years, and three years more. Each slice of time temporarily anchors a crowd around us—they gather close, or simply pass us by. People don't come with an expiration date, yet relationships do. After about three years, some begin to turn. The ones that were flawed to begin with sour first. No matter how much you shared, those who once felt etched into your very bones eventually drift away, their outlines blurring into nothing.
Every temporary cluster, loosely built, is worn away by the river. The noise, the intimacy, and the promises peel off layer by layer, exposing the ties born of blood—and those few forged by years together to resemble it. Deep within the wasteland, they take root and twist around one another, binding us firmly to this place.