Gurgling Thoughts
How are you? I went to my old home earlier in the day. Everything has changed. The road behind the house is furnished with cement now, instead of the muddy, plain one. People are almost the same, except all getting older and less familiar to me. I stayed in the small wood in front of the house for a while. I thought I
would be struck with tears and sadness. But no, I just leaned against the wall,
listening to the scanty noise made around.
The houses around my old home have been made bigger, and larger, and identical.
It's hard to tell one from another. There isn't much change having been made about my old home since it wad sold to someone. The bricks are still the same, even
the shape of the yard hasn't changed much, but no, I can't feel it's still my home any longer. The feeling has changed. It's still the house I used to live in,
but it's not the same one any more.
It's interesting to see how deeply I have been lingering on the house, whereas how indifferent my sister felt to it. For me, it's like a colorful dream, in which comprises everything that I could imagine in point of my childhood. I thought
I would definitely pick it out at first sight from the rows of houses besides the road, but no. I rode till I thought it was too far, I asked someone nearby and
was told I had overpassed the house for about half a mile. How ironic. Even when I walked near it, I couldn't believe my eyes, is it really the one that turned
out in my dreams time and time again? The iron-made gate was full of rust by time, and it was locked. And there I was, shut out by what was once my home.
And the field I used to run around existed no more. Neither did the river flowing near the field. Everywhere has become strange to me. Then I began to understand that life is random, as you said. Maybe I just happened to be born here, and happened to spend my childhood here, so how could I have right, or expect, that it should remain the way it was and wait till I come back one day?
Yesterday on a TV show, the host talked about life and growing up. He said that
we are always on the run, and during the running process we never cease to grow
up. But on the other hand, at some moment of our life, for some reason we may stop to rest for a while. Sometimes it's the resting time that we come to deeply realize we are growing up, mentally especially. I think somewhat I am in this state now: being kept still. Sometimes deep at night when I can't drop asleep, I could almost hear the time is passing by, and there is nothing but the stream of the mind flowing in the darkness of hush and cold night.
I am still reading David Copperfield now. Now he is sent away to work and has to
live on his own. Charles Dickens is a good writer, by the first-person narration technique and his employment of varied writhing skills, he turned readers to the realistic world of that time, making the readers laugh, sigh, or even cry with the poor child. I don't know the end yet, but I hope it will end less gloomily
and more cheerily than now… But I like the book. You have a similar taste for
literature, to which I am quite pleased. Hope we can talk more after I get back
. And I am sure there is plenty that we can talk about. Happy new year.
