My four seasons
Jason
In summer, I stood on the ground because of drought, anxiously looking forward to the south wind and clouds with raindrops. How I long to see it! As expected, the wind blew, but the gust was a little stronger, blowing the clouds carrying raindrops to another land. I hate that I can't jump into the sky at once, catch the cloud and beg it to give me a drop of rain.
What wishful thinking is that! I finally understand that this delusion is like pulling out your hair and leaving the earth, so I don't think about it anymore. I can only look for springs in this land where I live.
Without adequate preparation, I hurried on my way. Needless to say, I have experienced hardships. If I find water, I find I don't have a container. Just because my mind is simple and overheated, there have been many avoidable and painful mistakes. Really, that's not impossible. What really hurts is that I'm here, not impossible. I stamped my foot, I was angry and I cried. Start over! Such a simple experience requires others to pay twice the price to remember. I shouldn't complain about others. I'll behave myself for a moment.
I saw it with my own eyes. Under the relentless hail, my newly grown ear of grain, instead of growing up, struggled on the thin rice straw, but could not get rid of the land where it was born, but it was firmly locked and died before it tasted mature.
I used to open my arms, willing to grind my whole body into a big curtain to shield my young crops from strong winds, heavy rains and hail-
In autumn, I harvest like everyone else. Looking at my shriveled grain, I feel a kind of sour and bitter joy in my heart. But I am not discouraged or depressed, because my grain has withered more than others. I held them in my hands and clung to my heart as if they were a brand-new self.
My rich and kind neighbor lamented how little I got, but I laughed like a madman. In this laughter, I know that I am mature. I have a special measuring tool, which doesn't measure texture, but only feels. My neighbor didn't know there was life while I was harvesting grain. I have loved, hated, laughed, cried, tasted and thought thoroughly.
In winter, in the dusk of life, is there nothing to do? Just through the window, watching falling snowflakes, lonely fields, or counting western Western jackdaw on bare branches? No, I can also add some firewood to the stove to keep the room warm. I will check myself calmly. Why did I fail? What did I miss? What do I owe others-(I hope only others owe me)? In the last days, I will feel much more relaxed!
It is impossible to correct the mistakes that have become the past. A life can't have four seasons, and the four seasons in the future will belong to another new life.
But I still have things to do, and I will record them all. When people are bored, they might as well read to relieve boredom. People who hate me can also gloat and curse. Smart people may say it is unnecessary, and mean people may deduce a sword and cut me off one by one, but I believe most people will understand that they will judge everything I have done fairly.
In the dusk of life, it won't be me who laments and feels lonely.
She has written many books, including Children from the Forest, Love Can't Be Forgotten, Selected Plays of Zhang Jie's Novels, Emerald, Heavy Wings, Only One Grandson, The One Who Loves Me Most Has Gone, An China Woman in Europe, Living Better, Conditions Not yet Mature.