After Leo joined Everton FC, time seemed to slip away from him. The days passed so quickly, it felt like they streamed by without him noticing. To Leo, days were like a fast-flowing river; sometimes he felt its coolness, sometimes he bathed in its waters, and sometimes he simply watched his reflection in its surface. At other times, the days seemed like a train, carrying his joys in its wagons to unknown lands every night. Then there were days that felt like birds—silent, passing by in the distance, or at times landing nearby to sing him songs.
But just as often, the days felt like a fierce simoon, and Leo’s dreams were like fragile sand dunes. Each night, the storm would scatter what he had built with such effort. Days were also like thieves—forty thieves, forty thousand thieves—each one stealing a piece of his life, never to return it. And sometimes, days were like melting snowmen fading into the blue horizon, disappearing before his eyes. Days passed, days were passing, and they would continue to pass.
Leo was no longer a child.
Men love both war and games; and so, they love football, which is a war-like game. Watching others fight, whether in the arena of sport or battle, is the greatest entertainment for men. When they aren’t fighting themselves, they find joy in seeing others struggle: human versus human, human versus animal, animal versus animal—boxing, bull wrestling, cockfights, and the like. Why do men crave war so deeply? The answer is simple: because the pinnacle of a man's happiness lies in victory—winning, defeating someone, or watching another fall. His true happiness stems from witnessing the unhappiness of others. Even if there is no enemy in his life, he will create one, just to defeat it. This is how he satisfies the wildest side of his soul.
Sometimes, a man adopts an ideal and dedicates years to its pursuit. But when he finally reaches his goal, he finds that the ideal is not as spectacular as he imagined. Water doesn’t possess the beauty of a mirage’s allure. For someone lost in a desert, it’s not the water itself but the dream of it that captivates. Leo Jo had dreamed for years of wearing a red-and-white jersey in front of a magnificent crowd of supporters. Now, here he was, wearing the jersey that had filled his dreams, and hearing the legendary cheers of the Liverpool fans. But was this truly the dream he had imagined? When he stepped onto the pitch in that red-and-white kit, would he purse his lips and wonder, ‘Did I really live all all these years just for this?’
The team spirit within Liverpool FC was slowly but surely growing. The players set aside their personal ambitions, forging a collective sense of purpose. With every goal scored and every goal conceded, the ice between them melted. They rejoiced in Liverpool’s successes and grieved over its losses, each feeling deeply tied to the club. Over time, they shed their individual personalities, blending into a united whole. As the team became more cohesive, so did the bond between the players and the fans.
There were two Liverpools: the football club, and the Liverpool in people’s hearts. The first inspired the second with its colors, history, and identity. The first was like a magician, pulling along the second—millions of people thirsting for love and victory, a collective of volunteers searching for a cause worthy of their devotion. They were like a battalion of butterflies flying toward the flame, their lives given meaning by the fire, like lovers dying for a poem, as all who loved Cleopatra did.
Are wealth, beauty, and fame not heavy burdens for a young man? How many can bear them for long? It’s a particularly difficult trial for a boy who grew up in an orphanage. These three forces—wealth, beauty, fame—can intoxicate a young man, sweep him off his feet, and strip away his innocence. Fame… Fame is barren, it has no offspring, and it can’t be shared with anyone. Like fire, it doesn’t make friends, only slaves. Yet, Leo shared his wealth with the orphanage children and his fame with the Liverpool supporters. His love for the fans kept him humble, neutralizing the arrogance that often accompanies fame. But the beautiful women who flocked to this handsome, 21-year-old footballer—they were harder to resist. How many more times could he turn down a charming woman? There is an invisible magnet inside a man, one that cannot resist the pull of a beautiful woman. A single smile from her could unnerve even the strongest of heroes. Gold melts in fire, women melt in gold, and men melt in the presence of women.
Nathan, who had nurtured Leo’s talent for years with dedication, started to feel the footballer slipping away. Yet, he consoled himself with a question: How many girlfriends did you have when you were his age? It eased his concern, and Nathan eventually stopped worrying about Leo altogether.
Worries, after all, are like clouds. Dark clouds gather before a storm, but a gust of wind sweeps them away to distant lands. Worries are like birds—you never know where they come from or where they go. Sometimes they scream and shout; other times, their voices fade into silence. They disappear into the sky, never lingering with those who don’t have the warmth of love within them, for birds dislike the cold.
As the night deepened, so did Leo’s isolation. He and the night were alone together—like two enemies sizing each other up, waiting for the chance to strike. The night, sensing Leo’s loneliness and despair, seemed to laugh quietly, mocking him.
If fragrance is the voice of roses and light the voice of eternity, then death is the voice of the night. It loomed like a monster, cloaked in a dark shroud. Beneath that shroud, who knows what lurked—perhaps a demon, or a devil, or at least a thief. For the young, the night brings hope; for the old, peace. But for Leo, it was a monster. A monster with eyes that did not shine, with a breath as cold as ice.
Silence—total silence, and nothing but silence.
She was escaping the chaos of words, fleeing to the cosmos of quietude. Words, she felt, were so simple, so inadequate. They could never truly express feelings. Words were like poor painters, spending hours on a canvas only to produce mere sketches. They couldn't capture a thought or a dream completely. They were toys, jigsaw puzzles in the hands of children, used to create little houses, trees, or cars. Silence, though—silence was the sea, while words were just rivers. To truly express the depth of suffering, one should not speak. One must remain silent.
Just as a picture cages the bird of imagination, words trap meaning. To express emotion through words was like trying to bottle the sea. Silence, however, was a language all its own—universal, understood by every living being. The quiet of the night, the depth of the sea, the stillness of a coffin—each spoke volumes in silence. Silence was a poet, unlocking the hidden truths of the heart.
Everything is simple and clear with you, loneliness. Every living thing wants to speak through you. Time moves slower in your company, and those in pain, the lost souls, those far from home—they become my friends through you. What are you, loneliness? You’re like a repair shop, mending broken hopes, shattered hearts, and wounded pride.
Loneliness is the path to your own soul. It’s the soil in which genius grows. A drop of dew falls in the quietest hour of the night, just as genius emerges in solitude. Crowds are the enemy of genius, which is why the genius always seeks refuge in loneliness.
Loneliness is a harbor—a safe place where people battered by the storms of life can take shelter. It’s not a retreat for the weak, but rather preparation for new battles, new adventures, new pains. Just as ships suffer damage in a storm, people get worn down by betrayals, struggles, disappointments. And they can only heal in the quiet of loneliness. Here, no sea spits in your face, and no wind slaps you. Loneliness is a safe port.
