When I first began learning chess, I was eager and competitive ♥, always chasing speed and seeking material advantage. Back then, I would sit around the square board, staring at the round, smooth pieces ๐, feeling only boredom and the slow passage of time. I would exchange rooks for knights, sacrifice cannons for elephants ⚔️—regardless of the position, I was ready to risk everything for that fleeting thrill. At that time, I stood beside the gears of time ⏳, not thinking, merely pushing it forward with all my strength.
Later, I grew up ๐. The sharp blades of my youth quietly sheathed themselves. I no longer obsessed over reckless sacrifices or daring attacks; my style of play became as serene as water. I began to focus on every ordinary, unremarkable move, attempting to grasp each moment of the game.
Yet I remain naturally timid ๐ฐ, afraid that one day the board will gather dust, that weeds will sprout along the Chu-Han boundary ๐ฟ, that the wind might scatter the sound of falling pieces ๐. When that day comes, I suppose I can only watch quietly, for time has long sealed all the answers in the moments when my hand hesitated before placing a piece.
I often thought it was the fundamental moves that highlighted the brilliance of the masterstroke ๐ง . I often thought the restraint of the generals surpassed the sharpness of rooks and knights ⚔️. I often thought it was your silent presence ๐คซ that tempered the arrogance of my younger self.
The moves I make now are no longer for victory, but for the pursuit of the Way. Today, the board is still clean, the boundary clear, yet between each move I catch a faint echo of time—the hours I have cast into the board. Only when the echoes fade do I realize that the loudest sound is the silence that follows each deliberate move.
