These years, I’ve often traveled for work and stolen time for trips whenever I could. Sometimes a business trip means three cities in one day; sometimes, like a hot stir-fry of the old days, I take off at a moment’s notice; sometimes I’m sprinting through high-speed rail stations; sometimes I’m jolting in an airplane’s turbulence. Often I startle awake from dreams—outside the window, night rain in the dim lamplight. I pat my face—ugly, but lucky, lucky: I hurt no one, and living quietly is enough. The wind won’t settle, and I often forget what evening this is, or where this place is.

Middle age is really scary.

Afraid of riding the elevator—afraid of being trapped on the 24th floor. Afraid of ride-hailing cabs—afraid the driver will doze off. Afraid of the bus—afraid of being bumped by an old man who only checks his e-bike while I ask him if he’s okay. Afraid of the minibus—afraid of being dumped halfway. Afraid of the train—afraid of a car full of kids. Afraid of the subway—afraid of being groped by an auntie. Afraid of the plane—afraid the captain quarreled with his wife last night. Afraid of typhoons, of storms, thunder and lightning. Afraid of the hospital—afraid that by midnight a doctor will press me to sign. Afraid of one word from the client—afraid of throwing my Samsung phone like a bomb. Afraid of family calls, afraid of hearing my own temper. Afraid of goin above 5,000 meters, afraid of being abducted by aliens for looking too abstract. Afraid of my phone being permanently out of service, afraid of being forever too poor.

In middle age, life carries many cares.

Ten years ago, dekey’s backpack, the hiking pack Brother Chuan gave me, my broken-in AKG, the Surface that accompanied me in Tibet, a Canon/EOS with a basic kit lens, a novel I never tire of no matter how many times I read it—“Mistletoe”, a pile of ticket stubs long forgotten, and two 3TB hard drives packed with scenery from every province and fellow travelers from all roads. How comfortably I lived every day of those journeys! After all, gear is just camouflage—heaven as my blanket, earth as my bed. I spent 100 yuan freeloading my way through Macau, watched the fair-skinned girls of Chengdu, washed my hands in Jiuzhaigou’s rainbow-colored waters, secretly pocketed Zhongwei’s sand as a souvenir, hitched a pickup truck through Menyuan’s rapeseed flowers, photographed the ChakaSaltLake where water and sky meet, and spent a whole day spacing out in Potala Palace Square. Having crossed the lights of Beijing, Shanghai and Guangzhou, I count myself a worldly commoner.

There was a time when two long-single people rode their scooters, racing through the wind and rain,

「 Let’s go see a movie—“Don’t Go Breaking My Heart 2” is out. 」

『 Hmm? 』

「 We watched “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart” together that year. This time it’s the sequel—I wonder how it turned out. 」

『 Oh, I don’t care. 』

「，，，」

『 Hmm. 』

Do you know? The words on a movie ticket fade with time, just like the person who once watched movies with you.

Everyone sets out from the starting point; going out is only to return better.

How many people deceive themselves with “this is the last time” while still doing the same things?

There is the bustle of life, there is waiting, there is the life you want.

Flowers bloom, late summer,

Then let me write the preface for you.

END

Guangxi Nanning