Years ago, on a morning that seemed to freeze my limbs and brain, I looked out the window and decided that this would be the perfect time to go traveling. I packed my belongings, fed my cat, locked the windows, closed the light, searched for the keys, and bid farewell to my portraits.

I settled down in a wooden cabin beside a creek. I was twenty-seven by the time, a youngster just stepping out into the grand journey of life. I carried with me some basic survival needs and worked at a nearby grocery store. It is an easy way of living. Things slowed down, and I felt at ease. A calm feeling—persuading me to completely settle in this small town—gradually washed over my mind. One night I woke from this absurd and soothing dream, but felt afraid. I gathered all my packages and hurried out into the woods before dawn. 

Seven years of traveling took away most of my juvenile recklessness. I was now thirty-four, yet my curiosity of life never passed away. I roamed and wandered about every possible place, fearing that someday I might lie down and be rooted forever. To be honest, this suits me the most, always pursuing some goal, yearning for some intangible truths about myself. Here I encountered my first love and got married. The old thought tickled me; I believe it is time to find my home again. 

Thirty years flew away from my fingertips. The seasons shifted; the moons and stars twinkled eternally; old age, friend nor woe, silently knocked at my door. Now I am seventy years old. I have seen beauty and I have seen grotesqueness. I have met with love and shook hands with hatred. I have lived, and might as well die someday. 

Here I rented a house by the river. One day, while half-dreaming in my rocking chair, I dozed off into wonderland. There, at the center of everything, is light, piled upon the countless times. A vibrant fire burns on the wasted stake. All my young ambitions and wild fantasies rushed in at once. I woke up, almost suffocated by the jolliness of that thought. I  packed my belongings like I did forty years ago. I fed my new cat. I locked the windows, closed the light, and searched for my keys. I bid farewell to the portrait of my lover, now begone. I left the house and walked out into the sun. 

I had thought that age and family could keep me from running out into the open world ever again. I was wrong. Deep in my heart, there is always a beating affection for something larger, grander than I can ever imagine. As I walked into the woods, as I trodded across the paths, as I lay down on the ground, and looked up to the sky, I could not help but think of one final truth.

—that this must have been the greatest love story of all.