"I believe in you, even if no one understands."

I haven't got that song in my i-Tune, the one I used to play so many times when walking on the bridge with cars and bikes whirling by and leaving me behind. But this thing called song, it can't be played too many times through the lifetime, because then it loses its true significance of recording a fragment of memory in the notes and chords. Now, listening to <stigmatized> in a stranger's library, the scene of flowing and gusting gray clouds running distantly above my head has rushed back before my eyes, the scene which I encountered everyday one year ago. It's so fresh yet obsolete, that I can't even breathe smoothly. It's there, but I just can't reach it any more.

Then I have affirmed that I'm so deep into my own homesick, or rather, timesick.

It shouldn't have appeared at this time, this very moment, when the important exams are coming and taking all my energy away. However, my homesick has grown into a willow blowing in the wind of subconsciousness, that it only comes night after night, invading into my dreams and mixing so many different spaces and people together to create nothing but weirdness. The dreams have the color of eventide, not very bloody, not very dark, but a faded afterglow pale orange. I was still the old myself there, as arrogant as a porcelain vase left in dust. I cared, about everything. That's it. I look back when I get sober staring at the ceiling, and I envy the porcelain girl with all my heart. The porcelain girl could have hardly imagine that paper could cut her into a monster. All she needs is fame, and fame is easy to get.

I miss the places. My small and messy bedroom. The bakery on a hidden street selling sugary cookies that can fill my stomach full with just one slice. The clothe shop by the corner where I used to buy these large-sized man sportswear with a brown globe on one of them. The railing which we pretended to be the net of shuttlecock games and yet I often couldn't get that small feather ball through.

I miss the scents. I miss the sceneries. I miss the petty things. Almost every aspect I do miss, but I'm not sure about the people.

We used to have this delicate sentence for whom we liked but never got the chance to be together: I miss you, but I miss you. I feel as if it applies to every person that I recognized to be important. I passed my childhood and half of the adolescence shoulder by shoulder with them, but when I finally turned my head back to take a careful look, they've already mutated in the tides of irreversible time. We name this with nine tenth of pride and one tenth of maze: growing up.

Now I've grown up a lot, according to the theory, yet I feel no more than a capricious child. How dare I reveal what I’ve become, to the ones who still stay innocent and simple. The past won’t accept a vagabond pretending the happiness of presence. I’ve been stigmatized right on my forehead, to be sent away into adulthood and death, traced by those angles yelling for the old me. Darling babies, forgive me, forgive time.

I need to gather up my mind and focus on life. Life is something I can't waste any more by bumping my head onto the wall or promising to climb up to the tallest building in Oxford. What's left of me, is still precious enough to afford the rest of my life. However hard it is, however silly it might be to carry on, I'm that brave fool, motivated by the dullness and the fears.

I believe in you, even if no one understands. To all those struggling to find their own positions. Something will come through finally, though not love, not friendship, not parental ship. It's oneself.