# the mountain

**Published by:** [hamburger](https://paragraph.com/@hamburger-2/)
**Published on:** 2022-12-14
**URL:** https://paragraph.com/@hamburger-2/the-mountain

## Content

Let oneself in a daze before the mountain Hongyan, let oneself word poor, let oneself draw a stroke. One autumn in Qixia, a friend who lives in a northern city couldn't wait to tell me how the leaves of a mountain forest turned red. He described it several times in his letter, but at last he was not satisfied. Unfortunately, he is studying Chinese literature, and he is so poor, it is hard to avoid some frustration. Frustrated and angry, he sent a message saying, "Come and see for yourself!" I have been to the city where he lives. Surrounded by the big river, the ancient city gate stands tall and majestic, which reminds me of many stories. But when I went, it was summer, and I did not encounter the autumn scenery that he admired. One day along with Xing disorderly walk, inadvertently to the outskirts of the city, see a few tall stone carvings standing in the fields of the farm to ward off evil, like a lion, like a pegasus, swaggering toward the vast sky. Of course, I recognized it as the old tomb of Xiao Liang Dynasty in the Southern Dynasty about 1,500 years ago. I did not know why I was sad. A puff of smoke rolled by, and the farmer was cooking in a small pot with a tile stove beside the evil spirits. Dried fish and fermented bean sauce, spicy, salty, hot smell rushed, near and far to call dinner, the present world a piece of joy, in fact, there is no story of vicissitudes of life. When I left, the sun was setting in the sky. My companion pointed to the ever-changing Xiapai and told me, "There is a mountain nearby called Qixia, and a temple in the mountain is also called Qixia." "Qixia" may not refer specifically to the sunset glow. In many literatures, "Qixia" is more about the enchanting memory of the autumn forest dyed red by frost, which is gorgeous and changing. I sympathize with the friend who struggles to find the words to describe a beautiful scene and ends up frustrated. I promised him that I would choose an autumn to visit Qixia next time. I can imagine the boundless trees, a few days, rustling autumn wind passed by, tremble flying thousands of leaves. The whole forest, from indigo green to green, orange, yellow, purple brown, crimson ochre, into a tangled golden red; A piece of blurred, a piece of light flashing off, such as coloured glass amber, such as Xiaxai changing rapidly, layer upon layer, staggered swaying, become elusive and difficult to describe the overlap of light and color changes...... Twister, we're all speechless, aren't we? We are depressed, or helpless, or no reason to tear up, just because the heart of a long time to open a place suddenly touched. We understand something in a flash, but we can't make it clear. We see life and death at the same time, see prosperity and decline, see prosperity and disillusionment, see the flood to destruction, see the end of cause and effect, so in front of us. "Beauty" so comes, our hearts throb, but there is no name. Zhuzi, if autumn is in Qixia, do you think I can find more words and sentences to describe color than my friend who studies Chinese literature? If autumn is in Qixia, will the paint we take to sketch be enough to depict and render the splendid layers of frost-stained leaves? Or we, too, just stand frustrated and speechless. "Beauty" silences us, "beauty" humbles us, "beauty" makes us know that life is hard and sweet, hard and solemn at the same time. Through beauty, we are born again and die again. Next autumn, we agreed to go to the mountains. Let oneself in a daze before the mountain Hongyan, let oneself word poor, let oneself can not draw a brush, let oneself depressed, but also let oneself understand: we see, in fact, not color and light changes, we are in a flash, see thousands of life and death change out, in a flash we heard every time since the ancient times to come and leave the cry. When thousands upon thousands of withered leaves fly up from the mountains, when all the colors that are comparable to the flowers and the bright colors fade away one by one, the rustling leaves, flying all over the sky like butterflies in spring, swirl quietly in the cold and empty mountains. On the mountain road, there was still the last man who walked towards Akiyama. He did not want to write poetry or paint. He screamed at the mountains and cried with joy when he heard the echoes of the mountains and valleys.

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