In this land called “Lonely Village”, every inch of land is deeply buried with stories. The land is silent, it knows everything, but has never said a word. The wind here seems to be alive. Sometimes it is as calm as a lazy old man, gently blowing across the fields; sometimes it is like a madman who has been tortured and lost his mind, sweeping everything madly with sand and dust. Whenever the wind blows, the villagers will lower their heads and do what they should do quietly, as if only in this way can they coexist with the silence of this land and its silent anger.
Many people say that this land is too poor, so poor that even people can’t live like humans. However, poverty is not the most terrible thing. The most terrible thing is that when you know that you live like an incomplete thing, you just don’t have the strength to change it all. All changes seem hopeless, and every hope is crushed by the heavy dust without a trace. People have lived here for hundreds of years, and still don’t know what they are living for – unfortunately, this state of uncertainty has long taken root and grown in this land, becoming the most familiar scenery for people.
That year, I returned to the village and saw my elderly father. He was still so thin, like a dry branch, and his body had long lost any vitality. My father sat in the yard, motionless, like a stone. The wind blew over, raising a cloud of dust. He squinted his eyes and looked at the mountains in the distance through the dust. I know what he is waiting for. Everyone is waiting for something – waiting for a good harvest, waiting for a wealthy businessman to come to the village, waiting for government subsidies, and even waiting for the arrival of the god of death. Everyone in the village is waiting for a miracle, although they know that this miracle will never come.
I once asked my father: “Why don’t you go outside and see the world outside? It must be different.” My father just shook his head with empty eyes: “Outside is outside, here is here, we can only stay here. Our life is like the soil on this land. We are born at the wrong time and die without regret.”
My father never had a dream. His life was a river covered by mud, flowing without waves and disappearing in the dust of history. And I may become the second father, living forever in this hopeless land until I die. Everyone in the village seems to have gotten used to this kind of life, used to hopelessness, used to silence, and even used to the ruthless mockery brought by fate.
I remember when I was a child, the trails in the village were always full of children’s laughter. We ran carefree, without any burden in our hearts, as if the whole world was at our feet. However, as we grew older, the children in the village gradually lost their laughter and began to live the life of “old people”, with only fatigue and hopelessness in their eyes. Those teenagers who once ran on the trails have now become farmers who work on the land, shouldering the unfulfilled responsibilities of their parents, but have never had a trace of freedom.
I have been outside for a few years, and have seen the outside world, known the prosperity and convenience of the city, and also experienced the efforts people have made to survive. However, when I came back here, I still saw the familiar scene: pieces of cracked land, withered trees, and those eyes that were once full of hope, but now have become numb. Everyone in the village seems to have given up the desire to change themselves and began to look for the meaning of survival in the soil and dust.
The women in the village, covered in dust, bent over in the fields, working silently, as if their lives were destined to be like this. No one would ask them why, and even they themselves no longer thought about this question. Their lives, like the weeds on this land, seem to grow vigorously, but in fact they can never escape the fate of death.
My mother died early, and her death did not bring any different atmosphere to the village. Everyone was still busy with their own things, as if she had never existed. And I have long been accustomed to this silent pain. Whenever it was late at night, I would lie in bed and listen to the sound of the wind blowing through the old house outside. The sound was like a dead person crying softly. I closed my eyes and tried to forget everything, but I couldn’t forget anything.
I know that the vortex of fate has already involved all of us. No matter how we struggle, we can’t escape the trap of this fate in the end. Our life is like a bound ant, crawling in the endless mud, struggling to find a way out, but can never find the way to freedom. Everyone’s life is like this. No matter how hard you try, fate will always push you back to the starting point, no matter how high you stand or how far you look.
Perhaps this is the essence of life: an endless cycle. No matter how you struggle, you will eventually be pushed to a corner, like that ant, and you will never be able to break free from the shackles of the mud.
I turned my gaze away from the window and focused it on the cup of tea that had already cooled. The tea was rippling and gradually disappeared at the bottom of the cup. Life is like this ripple, always disappearing when we are not paying attention, with a trace of sadness and regret, but unable to save it. We can only continue to live a meaningless life in this silent land until one day, the wheel of fate finally takes us away.