Still remember the last time yourself on a swing? When I swung on this swing for the first time, I couldn't help but burst into laughter. Not sure if it was joy or fear, perhaps both.
Entering the Mountains
A whole piece of steel plate divided into two, one round and harmonious, the other sharp and edgy. They support each other to stand up, like a giant stone stage, sometimes sturdy, sometimes fragile, turning the children's game—swinging on a swing—into a spectacle. The surrounding hard ground hints at risks, with only the river view being friendly, creating a sense of tension. The pusher and the swinger, both experiencing it in front of everyone, from peaceful to romantic, from relaxed to unrestrained. The demonstration goes carefree.
It is precisely this dangerous tension that entices us closer, but the restraint that comes from danger balances the danger itself. The more dangerous, the more attractive, and the more attractive, the more dangerous.
Children
Let us swing on the swing, immersed between tenderness and roughness! At that moment, we all become children, laughing and shouting loudly. The tension pulls us away from the annoying reality, and freedom stimulates the return of our innocent lightness. I’m fond of this lightness, like the moon, like the wind.
You may love and hate it at the same time; if love can broaden the breadth of life, perhaps hate can excavate the depth of life.You need them both, and you’ll be addicted to them both.
Leaving the Mountains
I always say I'm lucky, relying on luck to achieve certain things.
Encounter is fate, missing is opportune. I always realize such things later, but looking back, there was a certain intuition at the time, and everything had its own arrangement—perhaps that's fate. When every encounter feels like déjà vu, it might be a sign of aging.
The two people on the swing are the same. The direction, the timing, and the force, if any above is wrong, they cannot meet. It seems unknown but actually destined. Sometimes it’s us who decide the intersection, sometimes we are just pushed by others. Once the swing starts, it is destined to meet or miss. Effort cannot change anything, neither the direction, nor the fate.
I’m grateful that we met. Talking to each other, achieving each other.
So how long will it last? Time and the earth keep pulling us on the swing, gradually calming down, becoming unromantic. Even if unwilling, it will eventually stop, disappear, leaving only the traces of memories.
Fortunately, we once met, like autumn moon, like winter snow.
Blessedly, we always meet, like crisp flowers, like scattered raindrops.
I had hoped that once the two people on the swing met, a cloud would rise in the middle of the mountain. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the luck on me this time. But I can wait.
Away from the Mountains
For me, love is not companionship, not passion, but oil in sorrow, flower in joy, smoke falling from the sky and laughter echoing in deep valleys. But you don't belong to me, and I don't belong to you.
Life will be fulfilled only when sorrow and joy are intertwined.
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