Borrowing a sliver of warm sunshine from the dead of winter, let it melt away the biting chill of this vast world.

The city, ablaze with neon lights, its nights dazzling and alluring, is a city overflowing with human emotions—love, hate, joy, and sorrow. In some corner of this city, I keep company with the pale incandescent bulbs, counting the bitterness of my life.
Am I sad? If not, why do my eyes fill with tears just from listening to a soft song? Am I remembering something again? If not, why do I feel like God's forsaken child? Is my heart aching again? If not, why am I tormenting myself alone in the darkness?
My eyes are blurry with drunkenness, I murmur to myself, thinking of someone like me, someone with my fate, who has drifted through the sea of humanity for over twenty years, yet has seen few truly kindred spirits.
I remember my childhood, at eight or nine years old, still innocent and naive, unaware of human suffering, oblivious to the vicissitudes of life. By day, I played and laughed with my friends, oblivious to sorrow; my days were filled with joy. Only when dusk began to fall, and all my playmates were called home by their parents, leaving me alone, my frail body standing against the gray-brown sky, did I feel a pang of loneliness. Often then, I would sit by the door, hugging my knees, glancing occasionally at the end of the road in the headlights of passing cars. I was waiting, I always waited, year after year, through winter snow and summer rain.
I was waiting for my father, always waiting for him to come home. I didn't want to be alone, hungry, in the cold, dark house. For me then, the warmth of home meant nothing more than a hot dinner. As
the years passed, and I grew a little older, around thirteen or fourteen, in that kind of family environment, my nerves became sensitive; I could always accurately sense the malicious gazes directed at me from all sides. The adults in the neighborhood warned their children not to associate with me, because I would corrupt their precious children. Every time I appeared before them, I was like a criminal with a serious crime on his conscience, an unforgivable sinner. Even a four-year-old, innocent and unaware of the world's ways, could point at me and yell, "Don't come play with my sister anymore!" I felt wronged and sad. What role did I play in other people's eyes after my parents' divorce? To me at that time, the warmth of the world was nothing more than a kind glance, or even just a friendly smile. They didn't know that a few words, even if feigned concern, were enough to keep me warm through the entire winter.
At twenty, I got married. It wasn't because of any particularly intense love, but because after a lonely and wandering life, I needed a home. I desperately longed for a haven, a place to protect me and keep me from loneliness. I loved with all my heart, and I tried my best to learn how to be a wife and a daughter-in-law. I tried my best to change my flaws, my stubbornness, my cold-bloodedness, all my shortcomings. I felt that the people in that family loved me, but one day I realized with a start that in their eyes, from beginning to end, I was nothing more than an outsider.
The more I expected, the more thoroughly I was disappointed.
My life was wrong from the start.

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Borrowing a sliver of warm sunshine from the dead of winter, let it melt away the biting chill of this vast world.

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