Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction 12 | Page 415

I decide upon the easiest way of facing myself. I take out a mirror hidden in my pocket, revealing my own
reflection.
I recognise those brown eyes, black hair. But the figure is too lean to be me, too bruised. Her eyes are too
old, hair too ruffled, her smile painted too unrevealing. It cannot be me. And I imagine the young girl I saw in the
mirror years ago. She was bright, innocent and untainted. Her eyes held the vibe of youth, the beating pulse of
energy and passion.
I warned her. I did. That she was too innocent, too unrealistic. And I want to tear up now. No, not for
myself. For that young girl that once was. That she disappeared in my memory, melted into the burning memories
of each of us old folks. It is lost, this old shanghai. It is lost, every young soul that once screamed away for their
naive thoughts. It is lost, in the eyes of each of us teary-eyed old children of the world.
It is lost.
No.
Yes.
Replaced, by time, by newly enlightened flaming souls. Too much has changed. Too little has changed.
Perhaps this is reality. Perhaps the truth is that our world is pathetic. It is a joke. We blind ourselves, that nothing
has changed, and nothing will.
Wrong.
Too much has changed, and too little has changed. We don’t change enough, and we change too much.
War is a mere excuse for our blindness, while opposites dance their way around our lives. The way the rich and
the poor, light and darkness, life and death meet in their dance. This is humanity. We are delusional, deceptional,
until we ourselves see the world in clear eyes. And, when you do see the horrible in humanity, you are left helpless.
Too helpless. Too late. Too lost. And the same shall be for old shanghai. It will come the same for all civilisations.
It shall end the history of humanity, the Earth, our world.
This is the scar humanity must endure.
Perhaps this is good. Perhaps we have always been too arrogant about Shanghai. Maybe a revolution would
help Shanghai. Sometimes we need scars to heal better.
And I, am only part of the healing process.
I mean nothing. I am nothing. Even my footprints fade too fast.
I am a blank, a burnt piece of white paper in the snow. The embers will die off, along with my
disappearance. And I see my avenged brother, kneeling next to me. He rises to his feet, and begs for me to show
mercy to myself. Mercy that I cannot offer.
I will die.
I was once scared of death. Only now I know, that it is a consolation, that it is what allows me to embrace
myself. Death, my friend, was the snow that rocked my brother softly away, and will be taking me into its arms.
And, I allow death to take my hand, and twirl me away in my last dance.