Cheuk Wai Hung

The man who is aware of himself is henceforth independent; and he is never bored, and life is only too short, and he is steeped through and through with profound yet temperate happiness. He alone lives, while other people, slaves of ceremony, let life slip past time in a kind of dream. Once conform, once do what other people do finer than they do it, and a lethargy steals over all the finer nerves and faculties of the soul, He becomes all outer show and inward emptiness; dull, callous, and indifferent.
Swallows may have gone, but there is a time of return; willow trees may have died back, but there is a time of regreening; peach blossoms may have fallen, but they will bloom again. Now, you the wise, tell me, why should our days leave us, never to return? - If they had been stolen by someone, who could it be? Where could he hide them? If they had made the escape themselves, then where could they stay at the moment?
I don’t know how many days I have been given to spend, but I do feel my hands are getting empty. Taking stock silently, I find that more than eight thousand days have already slid away from me. Like a drop of water from the point of a needle disappearing into the ocean, my days are dripping into the stream of time, soundless, traceless. Already sweat is starting on my forehead, and tears welling up in my eyes.