The call of the distant mountains

Far away from the mountains, in fact, not far. Just outside the window, standing tall, separated only by a layer of glass. On the other side of the window, the mountains were leaning forward with their heads on their chests.

Far away, really far away. The eyes can see, but the reach can't touch, only touch the hard and cold glass, staring at you with big eyes. Those mountains, even if you have a thousand longings for him, will not be touched by you in the slightest.

The distant mountains are there every day, and I can see a lot of eyes every day, just like the picture scrolls in the sky and the mirage, and I don't get tired of reading them a hundred times. Throughout the year, wearing different costumes, decorating different colors, showing different scenery, exuding different charms: spring, green dress, a hundred flowers everywhere; summer, radiant, emitting golden light; autumn, branches full of fruit, fruity fragrance fluttering; winter, snowy, crystal clear.

Mountains and houses, like brothers, grow in snuggles and warm each other. Behind the house, next to the mountain, in front of the mountain, stands the house. The house is like a tree that grows out of the mountain; the mountain is like a hand that stretches out from the house to the sky.

Standing on the top of the building and looking out, I found that the relationship between the mountain and the house was a different kind of landscape. The mountain and the house are no longer close, no longer intimate, with gaps. Between the mountain and the house, in fact, there is a street, a bridge, a road, and a river. The house did not grow out of the mountain, and the mountain was not the hand of the house, and they did not belong to each other. Standing in different places, I saw different landscapes.