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As I strolled along the narrow alley paved with messy
cobblestones in front of the door, I walked lightly, so lightly that I could
still hear the clear sound as if it came from the beating heart of the
village.
Now it was dusk, and the sun was invisible, making the sky look like a light
brown coffee. At the end of the alley, I could see a pond, just like the one
described in the Chinese poem "A View of Half an Acre of Square Pond." On
the side close to the alley, there was a stone fence, and on the other three
sides, there were rows of trees in various shapes, which looked like
clusters of smoke piled up gracefully under the shroud of the dusk. I could
still distinguish those branches that stretched out diagonally, especially
the one that lay flat on the water surface.
Deeply, I breathed in the heavy air, feeling a refreshing sensation as if I
had just drunk a cup of tea made from ancient spring water. I lifted my
head, looked around, and saw everything in black ink. However, the colors of
the water surface and the trees were different; the colors of the trees and
the sky were different, presenting a clear and layered ink painting. At this
moment, it seemed that everything was locked in the prison of time, never
changing, and I was buried in this overly quiet stillness along with it.
Suddenly, a fish leaped out of the water, breaking the peaceful atmosphere.
My gaze shifted to the water surface, and everything returned to "normal."
The ink-colored pond condensed the entire heavy and mysterious dusk. The
water surface was calm but not flat; it was an infinitely extended
three-dimensional space that contained a pair of dark eyes, insightfully
observing everything on the shore.
Somehow, I had an impulse to devote my life to tranquility- to jump in and
sink quietly- to find another world that belonged entirely to me. Would it
be possible to have no elegance or ugliness, no dirt or noise, and to
appreciate spring flowers and winter snow without bothering about the
loudness of cicadas in summer? At this moment, I understood a little bit
more; perhaps so many artists and poets committed suicide because they were
called by another world, where poetry and beauty ruled everything.
No, I had to leave. There was a solemn question about life here. I turned
around and walked home, still hearing the clear sound of my footsteps, mixed
with the beating of my heart.
Ah, the moon had risen very high already. |
