Inspired by my own story, this is a wake-up call for people in their forties, born in the 1980s: when you're tired, try to stop and rest for a while!
From a hospital bed in the emergency room to the landscapes of one's hometown, from the faint glow of the stove in an old house to the stone steps of an ancient road, from youthful troubles to the trials of life and death in middle age, this long journey of the soul is really a heartfelt look back at the whole of life.
Where We Come From and Our Roots
The soul's journey begins on the low stool beside the stove in the old house, where my father often sat. There are no words, only a faint glow, yet it sets the tone for the entire journey: one's hometown is not a geographic coordinate, but the starting point of the spirit. My father's quiet presence, the warmth of my grandfather's hand as he led me along the ridges between the fields, the absurd sorrow of being praised when my grandmother died, and my childhood longing to be second place beneath the ancient tree at my elementary school: these formed the original color of my life, rough and real, yet full of warmth.
The ancient road, the stone vat, the Chinese banyan, and Ganying Temple each hold the sweat and legends of those who came before. The migration of descendants of Bao Gong, the rise and fall of the bandit stronghold, the bells of Shizi Nunnery, and the paving of the main road: these layers of bustle and silence made me realize that an individual's life is only a faint stroke in this land's thousand-year story. But that stroke must be drawn to completion by one's own hand.
