A life of contentment

     I like sitting in the car, watching the scenery rush by outside the window, watching people come and go, eventually disappearing with time. I think I'm one of those forgotten by Father Time, which is why I can so clearly see the many hidden burdens behind those acts of forbearance. Some unworthy things are still sitting cross-legged, not knowing when there will be an end. I keep telling myself that what I've lost isn't just time, but what else is more worthy of reaching out my hands?

    I've gotten used to turning my face to a corner where no one can see me, used to walking among people, my hands suddenly feeling superfluous, letting a crowd drown out all my emotions. I've gotten used to reversing day and night, using night after night to replace day, forgetting myself in a corner, then facing the rising sun expressionlessly. I've gotten used to the winter wind piercing my internal organs, listening to the relentless rush of time.

    How ridiculous this world is, and humanity is even more like a joke.

    Why does aging always bring a sense of sadness and loss? It's because there are too many regrets and remorse. Words left unsaid and deeds left unsaid linger in the heart, impossible to forget. We always thought we could move mountains, but spring's beauty fades too quickly. What can I exchange for a moment of joy? Those springtimes, those blossoming seasons, are but a fleeting instant. Everything changes, as if it never happened. How I wish some people had never existed. How hypocritical and pretentious I am, letting so many years slip by.

    Having witnessed the blooming and fading of every season, heard the sounds of wind

    and rain, I've realized that the things that flow gently and steadily are not something everyone can possess. Perhaps it's not that I enjoy standing still for long; perhaps I'm just used to this posture, used to thinking that everything around me is irrelevant. And those fictional characters, I think, may truly exist in this world, perhaps in the far distance, perhaps right beside me. These vibrant people are like a living person beside me, fragmented into many roles, enacting stories we thought would never happen in real life.

    If only I could remain ordinary and unassuming forever, without the dramatic ups and downs, the great joys and sorrows. In my world, where no one is allowed in, one day weeds will grow back, and I will pluck them from my life, one by one, until I discover that even weeds can regenerate—but by then it will be too late.

    Those desolate, tragic wastelands burned by wildfires can one day be transformed into tranquil estates by human footsteps.

    Then I can invite every kind soul to admire the endless sea of ​​flowers and flowing streams.

    Many times, I walk alone along the embankment, swaying slowly and deliberately, as if walking on and on, perhaps reaching the end of the Yangtze River, finding a bridge to rest on, and standing there, feeling the wind that will never be cold, gazing up at the river's surface, where waves will never rise. Boats drift on the water—big ones, small ones, long ones, square ones, some with sails unfurled, some setting sail—and I believe there will be one that will be my resting place.

    But one day, I suddenly became afraid of this feeling of being alone. I was afraid I would walk down a road from which I could never return, afraid I would forget that home was behind me, not ahead.

    I rarely looked up at the blue sky anymore, to imagine the migratory birds flying all over the country. Every migratory bird that flew overhead had a dream, a home. But I, I don't know when, began to have nothing left, except for a stranger to myself, and I didn't want to get to know anyone anymore.

    Now, standing on a very high rooftop, what I see is no longer migratory birds, but those airplanes with huge roars flying fiercely overhead. Sometimes, they fly very low, as if only a millimeter above my head, spiraling endlessly, never able to carry my dreams far away. In the end, I still stand still, like a tree that has stood for ten or twenty years without falling, nothing but old and mottled.