During my middle school years, I composed an essay about my grandmother residing in the countryside, which moved my Chinese teacher profoundly. However, at that time, I did not perceive my writing as particularly authentic. I believed I was merely recording a chronological sequence, pruning the branches of memory for clarity. Undoubtedly, I genuinely appreciated my grandmother’s house during that period—though now, describing it in such terms might seem somewhat juvenile. In contrast to my peers who affected naivety, I was the one genuinely immature, meticulously pondering whether my choice of words was childish. Standing here today, I recall those memories in vivid detail. I can still hear the clock, monotonously ticking away. Back when I had countless languid afternoons, that sound neither soothed nor perturbed me—I merely observed its persistence. Now, however, it seems I am the one lamenting the inexorable passage of time. The garden in the backyard, the corridor that once was, are now entangled with overgrowth, just like my memories. One cannot simultaneously retain both the essence of childhood, and sentiments it evokes.

At the age of eight or nine, when I considered it impressive to incorporate idioms into my essays, I often titled my compositions “The Distant Horizon” because it seemed sophisticated. That distant horizon was so devoid of metaphorical connotation that it simply represented the farthest point within my visual field. Such a banal memory might have never resurfaced had I not undertaken the writing of this essay. In nostalgic narratives, many people express an ardent longing to return to a specific temporal fragment, like irremediable childhood. Nevertheless, if I were granted the opportunity to revisit the past—a cherished aspiration of innumerable authors and poets throughout history—I would decline. It is not that the past lacked beauty or that the present is without flaws, but that somewhere between history and the present, I have constructed my identity. Were I to retrace this journey, strewn with miraculous flowers, I might inadvertently choose a divergent branch, and consequently, cease to be who I am.

In retrospect, that essay was indeed sincere. A work that fails to move its author is unlikely to resonate with others. Perhaps that is not an entirely negative aspect. When I write with genuine emotion, I often find myself unable to produce much or even complete the piece. Conversely, the essays I write from a sheer urge to write are typically the ones I manage to finish, albeit with patience. The task of weaving a fleeting spark of inspiration into a cohesive essay requires both skill and patience. Moreover, writing has now become almost a recreational pursuit for me, and I no longer reproach myself for abandoning a piece midway.

I remain deeply proud, deeply assured, I am still an audacious dreamer. Standing here, I can discern the distant horizon beyond the many layers of future potentialities. This is both the confluence and the origin of all stories. Standing here, despite my aversion to cliched motivational narratives, I realize that my progress may very well be because this moment, much like a rare gemstone, will be cherished. Between where I stand today and all that has transpired, it is all youth. At the very least, now, I am capable of retaining both my youth, and its sentiments.