Chapter 170 Writing a Diary

In the early autumn, the air is very cool, and it seems to be filled with the mixed scents of various active substances.

Xu Que borrowed a thin stone slab from Hou's backpack, then borrowed her twig pen and dipping sauce, and began to write on it what she saw and heard: the aroma of vegetables wafting from restaurants, the faint scent of flowers and grass along long streets; before she knew it, another year was about to pass. Each day remained largely unchanged in its sunrise and sunset, what changed was the gradual, subtle experience of life within her heart, the slow, profound awareness of people and events—some passionate, some deep. The hidden secrets amidst the clamor, the boiling passion within the silence, every extreme blooming, every inch of longing struggling weakly, every trace of courage whispering a smile within.

My hometown will repeatedly leap before my eyes in many moments of leisure, taking root in the echoes of the rest of my life.

The Buddhist saying goes: "One should abide nowhere and yet give rise to the mind." Thus, through countless introspections, in the slow awakening of life, and after leaving my hometown, I finally deeply understood this. What I truly cherish is what I truly cannot bear to part with. The elderly with frosty hair in front of the hall, the village under the setting sun, the lush green vegetables of spring, the golden wheat ears of summer, the ripe fruits of autumn, and the fiery red glow of spring in winter—all of these are truly stored in my life. In this vast unfamiliarity, there is no one to confide in. I can only let my thoughts flicker, repeatedly tapping the keys of my heart. My hometown is imprinted in my dreams.

Longing is futile in the face of reality. The road must be walked step by step. The heart must be polished time and again to slowly become clear. Everything in this world changes—some people, some events, and complex emotions—but the only constant is the memory deep within those beautiful years. Old houses, ancient doors and windows, spinning wheels, plows for tilling the fields, winding paths… everything here is a memory from the depths of time. It's as if I've returned to my childhood. When I was little, happiness was simple; a piece of candy was enough. But now, the innocence and joy of those distant childhood days are gone.

Winter has come again, always desolate. A plum blossom stands alone on a branch, its subtle fragrance filling the courtyard. Time seems to be plotting an unexpected snowfall. Happiness, too, is always like this—simple and quiet. Like some reunions and waiting, unannounced, unintentional, yet already a beautiful scene. In this bustling world, people come and go as fate dictates. Those gazes that meet like clouds and water always falter on a snowy day. Time flows on, always so fleeting; at what pace should I chase after that white cloud on the horizon? Longing is always quiet. Like the silent passage of time on a branch, it remains serene and beautiful even as seasons change. The small words left behind over the years carry a faint fragrance of ink. Some clamor is ignored. Some waiting is done willingly.

Standing at the winter's ferry crossing, looking back, how much splendor has faded into dust, how much glory and disgrace has vanished with a smile in the wind. It turns out, of all that has passed, only my hometown remains, with its constant warmth, steadfast and unwavering. The colorful rings of time cannot conceal the vast ocean of years, nor can they erase the vicissitudes of life. I am still that cocoon on the other shore, waiting for you; without your arrival, how can I become a butterfly? If, many years later, I look back and you are still there, how should I greet you? With silence, with tears, with a willing heart, with all my tenderness!

I know that striving to do something well inevitably affects something else. There are gains and losses; you can't have your cake and eat it too! Life's journey often pushes us to a crossroads, where we hesitate, but can only choose one path, and once chosen, we can only go all the way! There's no reason to walk two paths at once. The only encouragement is perseverance; only perseverance can lead us to the very end, from darkness to light—this is what's commonly called a "bottleneck." Even in defeat, consider yourself a winner.

A madman, brimming with the creative passion of the sun, his inner world ablaze like a raging fire, persists in his love for art despite the lack of worldly recognition! He suffers and rejoices simultaneously. The farmers of the Liangshan Mountains, eating boiled potatoes daily, can go a year without bathing, filthy beyond measure; they lack even a decent stove or a warm, comfortable bed. Yet, we see no signs of pain or struggle on their faces. Who can say they are unhappy? The sorrow we perceive is merely from our perspective. But if we took them to Shanghai for six months and then sent them back to the Liangshan Mountains, they probably wouldn't survive! A small boat, drifting leisurely, departs hastily. A few entanglements, a few moments of longing, life grows old, time waits for no one. In the end, how many truly remain? I cherish these quiet, gentle years. Winter comes peacefully, all is well, the memories of time are crystallized. Before me are tea and books; outside the window, there is moonlight, the faint fragrance of plum blossoms, and a gaze that longs for my hometown.

On my way home, watching the leaves fall from the trees, my thoughts raced. Should I turn back, look at the path I've walked, and notice the warmth and感动 (gǎndòng, touching moments) around me? Let us not forget our childhood, not forget our earliest memories, let things come and go as they will, and let the beautiful memories remain deep within the years!

The sky was clear and cloudless, the weather was still terribly hot, and the melodious chirping of various birds could be faintly heard all around.

On the lush branches, you can see all kinds of birds, big and small, chasing and playing, even showing affection.

There were also birds busily searching for nests, carrying various sponges, firewood, and miscellaneous items in their mouths—a thriving scene.

The survivors, accustomed to the lazy and carefree life of the primitive world, suddenly felt somewhat out of place in this new environment. It seemed that everything was moving in a positive direction, meaning the apocalypse might be coming to an end?

Thinking about this, many survivors began to feel more unhappy than ever before, because once the apocalypse is over, will everyone be busy again, facing many social problems, just like before the apocalypse: buying a house, buying a car, desperately saving money, and only when they have enough money can they get married!

"Wow! The weather is nice today! Just from this weather, we can tell that the apocalypse is over? A new world is about to begin?" A long-haired young man and a group of former laborers were discussing this.

"A new world? My ass! Wasn't it like this a while ago? The weather was unpredictable, sometimes good and sometimes bad, and we're still in the apocalypse after all this time..." A balding, middle-aged primitive man said with great experience.

Xu Que was also helpless: "There's nothing I can do if they don't want to go!" The young lady said coquettishly: "We all know that although they are special forces soldiers, they really want to go, but they are too embarrassed to go because of their pride. They just come with us because they are afraid that others will laugh at them! Since they chose to be soldiers, they can't let the country down, right? So they are just putting on a brave face and suffering for the sake of saving face!"