One leaf, one world

 　　(I)

　　After the Beginning of Autumn, continuous autumn rains become the norm.

　　If one were to write, "Autumn winds and rains bring sorrow, sitting alone on a cold night, my heart is pounding," the poet must have many worries, or perhaps the poet has not grasped the weight, warmth, and composure of autumn.

　　Spring is always mixed with the chill of winter. The mountains, once ablaze with color, inevitably suffer the desolation after a night of wind and rain, losing all the graceful charm of yesterday.

　　Spring rain is like a mischievous child who sometimes likes to tease others, nourishing the beautiful bloom of all things after rebirth, yet deliberately ruining all beauty.

　　Without experiencing wind and rain, one cannot understand the charm of nature.

　　In summer, a period of scorching sun followed by a torrential downpour inevitably brings sorrow to the world.

　　In my industry, I feel this even more acutely. Landslides, mudslides, and raging floods, day and night, relentlessly ravage, devastate, and devour living beings.

　　Summer rain is like an ill-mannered rich kid or a scoundrel, wherever it goes, it plucks flowers and leaves a trail of destruction, acting like it owns the world. 　　"

　　Since ancient times, autumn has been associated with sorrow and loneliness, but I say autumn days surpass spring mornings. A crane soars into the clear sky, leading poetic thoughts to the azure heavens." Autumn should be a time for such a state of mind. 　　Whether it's a crane in the clear sky or a continuous drizzle, it's all good. 　　The autumn sun isn't as oppressive and scorching as summer; it's always accompanied by a gentle autumn breeze, softly and gently touching every inch of skin, making everything feel so pleasant. 　　Autumn rain, without the unbridled fury of summer, becomes so warm and lingering. Falling to the ground, it doesn't splash like summer rain, nor does it patter like large raindrops hitting rooftops and windows. 　　The sound of autumn rain is as tranquil and harmonious as a gentle nocturne. 　　(II) 　　Be a quiet person, like the autumn sunshine, like the autumn rain. 　　Very good. 　　Whether it's a drizzly autumn morning or a sunset-kissed evening, the vibrant colors of the distant mountains and the falling yellow leaves, accompanied by the patter of rain, or bathed in the fading sunset and gentle autumn breeze, everything feels so pleasant. 　　Quietly listening to the sound of flowers blooming, inhaling their fragrance, soothing and intoxicating; calmly watching flowers wither, picking up a petal, holding it in your palm, and letting it slip through your fingers in the wind. 　　The fallen leaves lie there quietly, or turn over in the autumn wind, then lie there again. Gone is the fragility of spring, no longer afraid of the summer's scorching heat; a touch of yellow, untouched by hardship, simply bathing in the autumn wind and rain, blending into the world. 　　Since ancient times, autumn has been associated with sorrow and loneliness, simply because the hustle and bustle of the world has made it impossible for us to find peace. In our hurried pace, we easily accept external beauty, rarely taking the time to quietly consider what kind of beauty we truly seek. 　　In a hurried world, there is no time for careful thought. 　　Amidst the clamor of footsteps, how can we still hear the sound of a single yellow leaf falling? 　　A single leaf, perhaps, is a world in itself. 　　(III) 　　A single leaf tells of autumn, a single leaf also tells of a world. 　　I love the red of flowers, simply because of their vibrant bloom. I love the unrestrained beauty of flowers in the world, blooming freely in their own way. 　　And I love a seemingly ordinary leaf, because it has endured spring and autumn, ultimately drifting away in the world, seemingly without attachment, joy, sorrow, desire, or expectation. 　　The growth of a leaf seems to begin only in early spring. 　　But that is not the case. 　　In the harsh winter after late autumn, that leaf, falling in the autumn wind in another cycle, lies quietly on the earth, eventually vanishing. 　　And at this time, the bare treetops stand steadfastly in the harsh winter, 　　waiting for the awakening of life, for the return of the leaves. 　　When leaves break free from the tree trunk's constraints amidst the spring thunder, sprouting new green shoots, who sees the tender care each leaf provides to the roots before vanishing, prostrate on the earth? 　　Who understands the pain of a single leaf as it falls, rots, and finally turns into a pool of black water, vanishing without a trace? 　　In the vibrant colors of spring, the fiery hues often overshadow the lush greenery. The green leaves, as supporting characters, are uncomplaining and silent. 　　Even when we occasionally see a leafless red flower, while marveling at its beauty, a sense of lonely incompleteness always rises in our hearts. 　　In the passionate and intense heat of summer, under the scorching sun, the leaves grow wildly, shielding themselves from the brutal onslaught of the sun and rain, frantically absorbing all the nutrients from the earth, all so that the trunk can stretch outwards and break through upwards. 　　Spring, summer, autumn, and winter always flow by unhurriedly, yet cycle back in unhurried fashion. 　　Autumn winds arrive unexpectedly. 　　In the unhurried cycle of life, can you still clearly hear the sound of a yellow leaf falling? 　　(IV) 　　I've been rambling on and on about an ordinary leaf for ages, and I'm starting to wonder if I'm crazy. 　　Maybe I am crazy. 　　Crazy people have their own world. 　　When you meet a "hero" on the street, he's often muttering to himself, and most people say, "He's really crazy." 　　He is indeed crazy. 　　Actually, you just don't belong to the world of crazy people. Just as you don't know what a crazy person is thinking at this moment, a crazy person is actually thinking, "Why are there so many crazy people in this world?" 　　Even more so, perhaps the real crazy person is still savoring the feeling of being the only one sober in a world of drunks. 　　We are all crazy. The fact 　　that we can still distinguish each other as crazy people at least proves that we are all still alive. 　　Maybe you will say, "I am still alive, but I am not well." 　　Even a rambling madman feels that he is still alive, so why are you not well? 　　You are worse than a madman, you are madder than a madman, truly mad, mad to the point of no return, beyond cure, mad to the point of being nothing but a wandering soul. 　　In fact, the truth is, you are not mad, you have just lost your life. 　　(V) 　　The most terrifying thing about a person is the loss of their own thinking. 　　You say that fish do not know how to think, so they are so joyful. But have you seen the salted fish on the chopping board? 　　You say that pets do not know how to think, but they are pampered by their owners every day. But have you seen the leashes around the necks of pets on the street? 　　No one can completely escape the turmoil of life. 　　If life is not washed and shaken, it will soon be covered with a thick layer of dust.

　　Perhaps, through words, through the thoughts that accompany their creation, one can gradually find greater peace.

　　Such writing is called musing.

　　Just rambling on, discarding logic, discarding the constraints of various formats, and discarding all other limitations, allowing oneself to wander freely within one's own heart.

　　Why do many say that either the body or the mind is always on a journey?

　　Simply because, to be alive proves that you are truly alive.


　　(VI)

　　A person who enjoys hiking or cycling will eventually tire.

　　Well then, find an open mountain pass, lean against the handlebars of your backpack or bicycle, and sit down.

　　Look back at the path you came from.

　　That feeling is wonderful.