From one city to another, the same flow of people, different moods.
What I desperately want to meet is not the people, but the background of the city—a building, even if it's a flower or a tree.
In fact, they are the masters of the city. And people are just passers-by in a hurry.
Looking at those ancient buildings and the towering trees that have flourished over the years, which one does not live longer than people?!
Even if it is flowers and plants, isn't it also a year old and a withered glory, and the spring breeze blows and grows?
Especially strangers like me.
Hanging my head and looking up at them, I am a hairline of time—subtle and short.
Putting aside the hustle and bustle of the crowd, hitting the soul of a city, I, my heart is shaking.
Not only the flowers and trees are alive, but also the buildings that have weathered the wind and rain.
They have gone through too much blood and rain in the world, and have long been tempered into wise and foolish "wise men".
But it does not show the indifference of seeing through the red dust, and has the magnanimity and humility of the Buddha.
They "look" at people, with a motherly gaze. Don't hide a knife in a smile, don't be tense.
My "communication" with them is like a drop of water rippling in the blue waves of time, unhindered and cordial, without the slightest abruptness and embarrassment.
Presumably, they realized my sincerity and piety.
The buildings of the Republic of China in Yongqingfang have been relieved of the burden of history, and the accumulation of time has given them dazzling brilliance, and the lights have become a foil.
Shuttling through the overlapping light and shadow of the old and the new, I would rather be a kite flying by time, overlooking the long river of history flowing quietly.