Gods and demons coexist in a spiritual world, hurtling and shimmering at the beginning and end of time.
People obsess over time. The moment of birth, encoded in eight characters, holds destiny—magic conjured from constellations crowning each head.
Time flows silently yet visibly, transforming everything it touches.
There is collective time; we call it an era.
There is individual time; we call it a life.
Unconsciously, anxiously murmuring:
Will the collective time contain my individual time?
Will the era I inhabit gallop alongside my self?
It’s difficult to remain resilient against the cruel enchantment of time without a shade of mystical belief. Ancient wisdom inevitably pulls modern souls toward mysticism’s murky pools, where instinctively simple thoughts leap free from the heavy shells of reality, transcending the senses.
Mysticism often believes in two worlds: one where time passes, and one timelessly spiritual. This belief urges us to fear time, commemorate it, and yet long to surpass it.
Time, and everything it carries, is the secret password left by the spirit world.
When exhaustion overtakes me, I dream of escaping briefly from time’s cage, drifting just a little bit toward there…
Yet the mystic remains tricked by time, exhausted within grids of greater and lesser moments. Within chaos there are always orders to find: rough; intricate; seemingly false. We chase them intuitively. A transparent puzzle lies starkly before the mystic: worldly standards divide life into good times and bad. Most people wander consciously within subjectively bad times, yet remain locked in a larger, incomprehensible time. They gaze, murmuring why they cannot push open an invisible door.
Time often slips from thoughts. Sages’s lives drain away, while ordinary people wait centuries within the grand stream of time for someone destined to shoulder heaven’s mandate.
When left only waiting, we sigh that time is unfair.
Yet time itself is fair—it is the intersections that are imprecise, imperfect, unfair.
Like a symphony spanning geography and centuries, the patterns woven blur rhythms themselves. Between eras, there is no true movement, only eternal cycles of ebb and flow.
We cling lovingly to time, attached to the finite beauty perceived by the senses: green spring branches, yellow autumn leaves, streaking stars, roaring winds, rising towers. Even if philosophers argue that neither space nor time is real, claiming only chaos is genuine, we still believe in the existence of beautiful timeless order.
Life and death, heaven and hell, day and night—even if simply illusions co-created by humans and time—give form to emptiness and feelings to hearts.
Tricked by time, comforted by time, restless day and night, some are moved by a grand spirit—to construct a luminous world amid violent chaos. Who endowed us with this sacred impulse? Shuttling between tangible worlds and metaphysical realms, only the instinct toward pilgrimage remains real.
Allow this moment to spin on… let it be more splendid, even if our flesh is already raw and crimson, marked by countless scars.
For where divinity has fallen, there lies eternal ruin.
世有神魔，在时间的两端呼啸闪烁。
人总是想着时间，出生的时间是八个字的密码，是命运，是满头星宿的魔法。
流动的时间，无声却有形，它把一切都改变了。
我们有集体的时间，称之为时代。
我们也有个体的时间，称之为人生。
不知不觉中，焦虑地喃喃着：
集体的时间是否容得下个体的时间。
我所处的时代是否与我的自我并向驰骋。
如果没有一点神秘主义式的信仰，很难在身处时间残酷的魔力时，仍能坚强立身。上古的智慧总将现代人拽向玄学的幽潭，那些顺理成章的思维从沉甸甸的驱壳跳脱，超越了感官。
通常来讲，神秘主义的信仰即是相信有两个世界：时间会流逝的世界和没有时间的灵界。这一念想，令人畏惧时间，纪念时间，又想要超越时间。
时间和时间裹挟的一切，是灵界留给我们的通关密码。
太过劳累的时候，会想从时间的牢笼稍作喘息，稍微去那里一点点……
而玄学家还在被时间戏耍，在大的时间和小的时间格子中疲惫不堪。混沌中自有规律。粗犷的；细致的；不那么像规律的规律。循着感知去捕捉。玄学家面前摆着再明白不过的普世课题：世间凡尘标准将人生分成了好的时间和坏的时间，多数人只身觉在坏的时间中徜徉，也被锁在难以理解的更大的时间之中。他们观望着，呢喃着，为什么推不动一扇透明的门。
时间与思想常常错位。历史总有这样的情况，先贤生命耗尽，而普通人在大的时间里等待几百年，等一个天降大任的人降生。
只能等待时，会感叹时间是如此的不平等。
然而时间是平等的，只是与它交错的一切，不精准，不完美，也不平等。
像交响曲，跨越了时间和地理，交织形成的图案，模糊了时间本身。时代与时代之间，没有真正的运动，只是永恒的循环起伏。
人眷恋着时间，眷恋着感官体验的有终之美。春枝绿，秋叶黄，星流电转，长风猎猎，高楼矗起。即使哲学家说空间和时间都不是真实的，只有混沌是真实的，我们仍然相信美妙的存在。
眼睛看到的，耳朵听到的，皮肤触碰过的，即使都归于人为的想象。时间和空间、生与死、天堂与地狱、白昼与黑夜，即使都是时间与人协作创造的意象，它们让空无有了形式，让心有了情感。
被时间戏耍着，被时间慰藉着，日夜难安的生活中，有的人产生了一些伟大的情怀，要在混乱凶恶的周遭中缔造光明的世界。这神圣的秉性究竟是谁赋予我们的？穿梭于实体世界和形而上世界之间，只有朝圣的本能最真实。姑且让这段时光辗转……再美妙一点，哪怕已顶着血红的肌肤，满身的癜痕。
因为神性陷落的地方，是万劫不复。