须影吟者🕊️

Last night, I dug out my diary from when I was eighteen, and it felt like I was transported back to that carefree era. But what I saw was more distressing than the naivety of my youth: I had made a list of things to accomplish before I turned thirty, and not a single one had been achieved. I wonder what that ambitious and slightly ridiculous boy would think if he saw me now. I remember the passion and determination I had when I wrote down those goals, but now I can only describe it as a crushing disappointment. Each item on the list was once a milestone I thought I had to reach, but now they seem like an unattainable dream. The younger me thought I could change the world, or at least my own destiny. But reality has taught me a harsh lesson, showing me the massive gap between dreams and reality. I'm starting to question whether I still remember my dreams from back then, whether I still have that passion. I try to recall why I wrote down those goals, but I've forgotten most of the details. The only thought that lingers is that I once yearned for success, for recognition, for love. Do I still have those desires today? I'm afraid to face my eighteen-year-old self, afraid to see my own failures and weaknesses. But at the same time, I long to talk to him, to tell him what I've learned in the past decade. To tell him that even if dreams don't come true, life can still be meaningful. To tell him that failure and weakness are inevitable, but they don't define us.