The dog in the yard lies lazily on the ground, basking in the sunlight shredded by the tree branches. On the newly paved concrete road in the middle, one can only hear the rustling of wind blowing through fallen leaves. Walking upward, I think to myself: this village is dying.
New solar street lamps have been erected on both sides of the road, and the uneven tiled houses have been replaced one by one with square, boxy structures. There are no more main halls, no more attics for drying corn, and no more courtyards pitted and scarred by children playing marbles. Wires carry all sorts of digital data, from CCTV-1 to Sina News; once the doors are closed, each home becomes its own world.
The old folks who loved to carry a stool and shuffle step-by-step to the front of the house for some fresh air have passed away. The new generation of elders spends their time in clouds of smoke, playing mahjong with their peers. The children who grew up to be young adults are working hard outside for those square, boxy rooms. And so, the children of those children do not come back.
Finally, the memories of searching everywhere for Maozhen in spring, catching green-headed grasshoppers in groups of three or five in summer, hunting for wild fruits all over the mountains in autumn, and having snowball fights in winter without ever feeling the cold have become our exclusive memories. There will never be that noisy, bustling village again; she has begun to subtly teach the young the truths she has realized over so many years. She is no longer earnest, nor is she long-winded anymore. Just like everything else that is growing old.
Walking up the path I once took to school, I realized that the road I felt would never end actually only takes fifteen minutes. We are not afraid of growing up; we are just afraid of growing into the people we despise. But... as it happens, everyone has grown up in that hateful way. Accompanied by the aging of others, and so many other unknowns.
Guo Jingming once said: the river of time surges forward with great momentum, while I stand on the side, head bowed in silence. Later, even he laughed at himself, saying that no one can avoid being swept away.
When I finally reached the highest point, the sun was just setting—sinking to the perfect position where it dyes the clouds red, making them less blinding. It reached the point where one could see the affectionate gaze of the empty mountains that had been waiting for it all day. After the sun grows old, it will collapse into a white dwarf, feebly emitting its final light and heat in its remaining days, before entering a cold, silent darkness—just like all other forms of dying.
While watching the sunset, a girl climbed up from the foot of the mountain. We could both see the same look in each other's eyes, both see the faint sorrow, and both see that we each needed a hug. But we just waited for the sunset in silent understanding, then exchanged a smile, turned, and walked away.
IT IS DYING, everything follows the path of death.
Enjoying solitude—sunset.