Chapter 1: The Unique Romance Of The Gobi Desert
Whenever the cold current from the Far North reaches the southern end of the Gobi Desert in the Hexi Corridor, the wasteland truly becomes a wasteland.
There are still some unharvested corn stalks in the fields, shivering in the cold wind, appearing poor and spineless.
On the contrary, those sunflowers stretching for several li, after being decapitated by humans, still proudly stand tall in the cold wind without much movement, showing a demeanor of preferring death to submission.
Of course, the sand jujube trees are different. This thing has taken root in the Northwest for thousands of years and seems utterly indifferent to the cold winds that arrive every year. It even lightly shakes its few tender branches, using the wind to send sand jujube seeds to distant places.
The sky here is extraordinarily high, so high that even eagles are unwilling to visit. Therefore, aside from a few tattered plastic bags flying around chaotically to adorn the sky, there’s only the deep blue sky, not even deigning to have clouds.
The brilliant sunlight, after passing through the cold wind, basically has no warmth left. Even when falling on the wasteland before one’s eyes, it brings no benefit and instead makes the ground even colder.
Wolves have run off, eagles have flown away, tree leaves have fallen, crops have been harvested—only humans remain.
In a not-so-high mountain hollow, there is an old yet sturdy yellow mud hut. Behind the hut stands an aged old pear tree. When the last fiery red leaf on the old pear tree is carried away by the wind, the old pear tree, full of traces of time’s erosion, matches the old house perfectly, like an old couple.
A not-too-large window emitting orange-yellow light, a stove with rising flames, a black iron water flask steaming white vapor, a small willow wood bed, covered with thick and fluffy bedding, plus a freshly sun-dried thick cotton quilt.
If it suddenly snowed at this moment, one could drill into this small world of warmth, take off clothes, pull off the underwear too, let the thing point in its habitual direction, and let oneself be as free as possible.
1 The whistle wind still rages in the high altitude, snow particles pitter-patter against the window outside, the water on the stove gulu gulu bubbles in the water flask—we put one ear against the buckwheat husk pillow and the other ear outside the quilt.
1 Half noisy, half serene—at this time, your heart is completely immersed in the story…
1 With a story, the desolate Northwest wasteland—even dreams are colorful.
