终于到了离别的时刻。

疫情和乱世给离别蒙上了一层灰色的迷雾，不确定性把地球村的美好图景击碎。在家已经一年多了——面对时间，我时常感到一种错愕，一种拼命想用手去握住流水的无力。可愈是想抓住，水分子愈是跳着轻舞从我的指尖滑落，只留下湿漉漉的冰冷。或许有扇门已经在我们的身后悄悄关上，可身处其中，谁人又能看见时代的全貌？

我总是习惯用虚无的调侃去解构一切，好像它们都是徒劳而没有意义——如果没有开始，就不会结束；如果没有初生的啼哭，就没有将死的喘息；如果没有爱的轰轰烈烈，那当然就没有恨的痛彻心扉。离别时，望着手臂上一年多前被刚回家的小猫抓出的长长疤痕，我想，也许人和人之间所忌惮的并非恨与伤害，而是沉默和遗忘。两条平行的线，正是有了这样和那样的羁绊，才织造成了人生的网。

想了很久才打出这些字——按我平常的标准，定会觉得是七分矫情，三分俗不可耐。但也许流于俗套才是祛魅的人生，柴米油盐才是脱水的生活。来也匆匆去也匆匆，我们脚下的路截然不同，却也一模一样。

耳边响起张震岳《再见》的旋律：“我会牢牢记住你的脸，我会珍惜你给的思念，这些日子在我心中永远都不会抹去。” G大调的坦荡，从容劈开引擎的轰鸣；眼前铺展开来的漫天霞光，随着机翼的仰角慢慢沉了下去。

“我不能答应你，我是否会再回来，不回头，不回头地走下去。”在慢慢暗去的机舱，我闭上眼睛。

It’s finally time to say goodbye.

The pandemic and chaos have cast a gray haze over the parting, and uncertainty has shattered the rosy picture of the global village. It’s been more than a year since I’ve been home - and I often feel a sense of dismay in the face of time, a desperate attempt to seize the flowing water in my hands. But the more I try to grasp, the more the water molecules dance lightly and slide off my fingertips, leaving only a wet coldness. Perhaps there is a door that has been quietly closed behind us, but who can see the full picture of the times when we are in it?

I used to deconstruct everything with the flirtation of nothingness, as if they are futile and meaningless - if there is no beginning, there will be no end; if there is no cry of a newborn, there will be no gasp of death; if there is no love bombast, then of course there is no hate and painful hearts. When we parted, looking at the long scars on my arm scratched by the kitten that just came home over a year ago, I thought, maybe what people fear from each other is not hate and hurt, but silence and forgetfulness. The two parallel lines, which are bound by this and that, are woven into the web of our lives.

I thought for a long time before typing these words - by my usual standards, I would have thought it was unnecessarily pretentious and tasteless. But perhaps the mundane daily routine is the truth of a disenchanted life. People come and people go. The roads under our feet differ, but they are indeed the same.

The melody of Chang Chen-yue’s “Goodbye” rings in my ears: “I will remember your face, I will cherish the thoughts you give, these days will never be erased in my heart.” The frankness in G major calmly splits the roar of the engine; the diffuse haze spread out in front of us slowly sinks with the elevation of the wings.

“I can’t promise you I’ll come back again. Just go on without looking back, without looking back.” In the slowly darkening cabin, I closed my eyes.