To Yinchuan, after passing through The Silver, the train has to go through a wilderness like the Gobi Desert. In fact, I have never been to the Gobi Desert, and most of my impressions of the Gobi Desert come from pictures and movies. Desolate, grassless, vast, loess and gravel – it is my inherent impression of the Gobi Desert. I think this should be the way the Gobi Desert was. The brownish yellow earth was made of dirt and sand, like the tanned chest of a country man in summer.
The wilderness that I thought was the Gobi Desert was not just an endless expanse, but also of undulating mountains. Bare mountains, occupied by hard rough stones. A kind of uninhabited desolation, dead silence, and the solemnity of confrontation with time. I sat on the train, going from one city to another, from one hustle and bustle to another. And the wild hills that flash by the car window are paved with the desolation and tragedy of eternity outside the bustle, and an innate distant atmosphere fills the space between this world and the earth. This breath is unique, primitive, and endowed by God. If you stand here, you will feel strongly, this is the distance.
The deserts of the here and now are forgotten, neglected and abandoned by time, so desolate that time and space are stagnant. I thought it was the Gobi Desert, and I would like to think of it as the Gobi Desert, because I have always been in awe of the emptiness and infinity of the Gobi Desert. What am I in awe of? I don't know. No, I'm grateful. What I am grateful for is the perseverance and eternity revealed under the desolation, which alerts us and reminds us of what is possessed and what is empty.
There seems to be no life here, few people are seen, only the wind is blowing, only the sun is shining, only the sky is looking down, only the earth is carrying. The wind can't be strong, and if the wind carries a temper, it is hellishly fierce. The so-called wind and sand correspond to the fall of the end of the world, and the mind and the state are so close and echoing.
I think such a place should be called a distant place, and it is always a place in the field of vision that tries to look. The so-called looking is probably not daring to come closer, but the heart yearns for it.
The wind may be the best friend of the desert, not long goodbye, not distant. Sure enough, the wind came, and the silhouette of the hill seemed to tremble slightly. The wind meets the speeding train head-on, and the train passes through the wind, and the wind against the train, whistling, tearing, fighting. The wind did not show weakness, and the train was tenacious.
The wilderness is rolling and roaring, like the waves of the sea, there are no waves in the wilderness, but you can always feel that the wilderness seems to be turbulent, brewing a terrifying wave. The sky is gloomy, like a stranger in anger, exacerbated by emotions, rendered with irrepressible resentment.
The whole window was a sea of rage, the wind and sand hitting the window, and the hard, rough sound frightened the people in the car. Everyone scrambled to get close to the window and look out.
Shredded pieces of paper, grass and wood chips and fine sand, tumbling and stirring in the wind - a distant dance of the earth, performed in the dusk, let you know what is thrilling and what is dark.
Suddenly, in the distance outside the car window, there was a person, walking in the wind, facing the wind. He was dressed in the kind of black clothes common to countrymen, a vaguely invisible figure. He hunched over, like a porter sailing against the current, struggling to pay and struggling to move forward.
I watched him silently, not knowing who he was, not knowing where his home was, not knowing where he came from, not knowing why he was walking in this sudden wind. The train passed quickly, and he disappeared from my field of vision.
I often think of this scene, the figure who is trying to move forward in the wind and sand, and has become a distant place in memory. The heart is desolate, like a desert; the years are barren, and man becomes the years in the desolation.
