每日評論0428 分裂之上，仍有微光

Whispers Through a Divided Sky

There was a time when the skies above us grew heavy, and every breath felt weighted with things unsaid.
Under President Trump’s rule, the winds shifted — bold, loud, undeniable. They swept across the quiet plains of habit and certainty, stirring dreams in some and dread in others.

I stood at the edge of that storm, heart torn between admiration and unease.

Somewhere within the boldness, I saw a reflection of strength we had long forgotten — the raw hunger for something different, something uncompromising.
Yet in the same breath, I watched the language of fear and division deepen the cracks between us, turning neighbor against neighbor, friend against friend.

It was a time when love of country became a battlefield.

When pride was wrapped in suspicion, and every conversation a fragile thread easily torn.

I longed for understanding, for the grace of listening — but the winds were loud, and many chose shouting over hearing.

At night, I would sit by my window, tracing the faint glow of distant streetlights, wondering: What is a nation, if not its people? What is freedom, if it drives us into isolation?

I did not hate, nor did I blindly follow. Instead, I carried a thousand unnamed feelings — sorrow, hope, weariness, resilience — stitched together like a tattered flag still flying stubbornly in the storm.

Perhaps this is what it means to truly love a place:
not blind adoration, nor easy surrender — but the willingness to stay, to wrestle, to believe, even when belief hurts. Even when belief means hoping against despair.

I still believe.

I believe in the quiet strength that survives the noise.
I believe that beyond the shouting and the slogans, there is a river of kindness still flowing between us.
And as long as we do not forget how to reach across, how to mend, how to hope —the future will remain ours to shape, tenderly, together.