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Longing for Distant Dreams |
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Standing at the tail end of time, I looked up and gazed at the bewildering
scenery that remained an untouchable distance. Time is a solid wall, with
weathered marks covering its surface, embodying the vibrant beauty of spring.
Green vines flourish with a refreshing fragrance, drifting towards the paradise
beyond the enclosing walls.
I am not a vine, unable to climb the hills of dreams. Yet, I possess a green
longing. So, on tiptoes, I gaze at the overlapping and fragmented traces of the
past, looking out towards a hazy distance adorned with soaring seagulls and
vibrant flowers.
In childhood, longing was merely an invisible pair of wings, with tender
feathers too weak to stir the gentle breeze. I longed for my father's sturdy
arms to lift me high, celebrating as I climbed Mount Everest, plucking clusters
of glistening lychees and relishing their intoxicating fragrance. I longed to
climb the swaying swing beneath the Chinese parasol tree, imagining myself as a
joyful fairy gracefully swaying on the swing, leaving only the echo of clear
laughter. I longed to climb the tall windows and gaze at the boys and girls
playing marbles and jumping rope outside, chasing their laughing dreams.
Meanwhile, I remained trapped in a lonely and desolate cell, waiting for my
parents to return from afar. Too many longings were as elusive as a moon
reflected in water. On tiptoes, I looked up, but time, like a passing white
steed, could not hold back the fleeting clouds.
As the flowing years pass and the stars shift, I finally find myself on the
mature branches of the seasons, gently plucking the round moonlight. With a
slight raise of my tiptoes, I can pick countless stars and wait for the dawn of
hope. Looking back, my feet anchored to the city's longitude, my eyes become
teary, yearning for the distant hometown.
There, tall mountains extend with a vast and solemn network, resembling the
strings of a lute, entwining in intricate melodies. There, clear waters entwine
with the melancholy of the rural folk, and the bending moonlight casts a dim and
yellowish radiance. I raise my tiptoes, but still cannot discern the resolute
yet hazy gaze beneath the Chinese parasol tree. I always fantasize that by
rising on tiptoes, I can touch the lofty dreams hanging high above. Dreams are
distant, like a sailboat sailing away on a clear river. Even when standing at
the highest point, it is only a blank and desolate yearning.
On tiptoes, I gaze into the distance where the waterwheel still hums ancient
songs, while reincarnation obscures many familiar faces. Vaguely in my dreams,
my father, with tears in his eyes, tells me to walk out of these towering
mountains and, on tiptoes, look up towards the dreams in the distance. In faded
drawings, my mother wraps me in warm clothes, reminding me to remember our
lovely hometown when chasing dreams and not to forget her affectionate smile. In
my dreams, I raise my tiptoes and see my parents' familiar figures stretching
into the distance. Upon waking, I realize that I am still in a foreign land,
unfamiliar and alone.
Time is a wall, and I raise my tiptoes to look up. The past within the wall is
vast, while the scenery beyond the wall is filled with hope. I long to be a
green vine, with my unchanging homesickness as the roots, one end firmly rooted
in the soil, and the other touching the beautiful paradise. |
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Answer |
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In this poignant reflection, the author stands at the tail end of time,
gazing at an unattainable distant landscape. Time is portrayed as a solid
wall, adorned with the marks of age, while the author longs to be like a
green vine, reaching for their dreams. Childhood memories of longing for
adventure and the warmth of family are juxtaposed with the present reality
of being trapped in a foreign land. The passage emphasizes the fleeting
nature of time and the yearning for a connection to one's roots. Ultimately,
the author's longing is depicted as a green vine, rooted in nostalgia, yet
reaching towards a beautiful paradise. |
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