Kite in the Rice Field

I

Vast rice fields, wind rustling. Along the winding path, distant city buildings loom tall and strange. The sky is still that blue—bluer than childhood.

Beside the fields sits a white-haired old man. His wrinkled face shows no expression; his eyes squint toward the distance. If you knew his story, you would understand his solitude—every sunny day is torment, as night once tormented his youth.

He lives among great rice paddies. In spring and summer, endless green crossed by canals—blue sky, white clouds, clear water; in autumn gold with specks of green; winter pure white fields under a pale red sky.

He long ago tired of the scenery. In this huge world only he is human—or the only living thing. From day one here he has stayed forty years; today is year forty-one, day one. He woke on Ox Tooth Hill—high ground, rice fields for miles. He had seen enough scenery; he wanted space broad enough that inner turmoil would not rule his body.

He had tried suicide. At ten years here he spent two days climbing North Rooster Mountain, hesitated twenty-eight times, then jumped. Miraculously he woke—in his cot in his hut, whole-body pain, seven days to heal. After that “death” he sought ways out, then gave up. He recalled happiness before twenty-two; even pain now seemed beautiful. Gradually he could not tell past from present memory, then decided it was all a dream. Afraid the dream would shrink and leave, he wrote it down. In half a year he had little left to write; his greatest pleasure is reading those dreams before sleep.

The sun has set; darkness gathers. He stirs, returns to his hut, records today’s time, and reads dreams—today, number 24.

II

He opens random notebook pages. A big title: “Dream Journal — Dawn Dream.” Content:

“I dreamed the window had not been opened for ages. When I opened it, countless deep-red waves several meters high rolled toward me, then stopped at the sill. Sunset lingered; at the sea-sky line I seemed to see a great spirit. Right—I must get up early for physics class; I grabbed my phone to photograph this and post to Moments. Afraid seawater would pour in, I jumped up naked and shut the window. As I closed it, Xiao across the girls’ dorm was getting ready for class. Our eyes met—awkward—and I woke.”

He laughs each time. Silent like now, he once saw rolling sea, spirits, a magical phone—and met her eyes. He tries to recall her face and the embarrassment; the blur grows blurrier, feeling gone. Unsatisfied, he flips to “Reality — Tiger Park Dream”:

“I took a car to the east gate of Tiger Park. Across the lake a river, green and clear; willows along both banks, endless. Sun on leaves, pale green like spring sprouts. Butterflies drew a little girl’s chase; adults pulled her hand along the bank. I crossed the road, down steps—a tower ahead, a white causeway to a mid-lake mound. Anglers, children’s noise, the park’s bustle. Distant towers vague, cranes busy, colorful boats, swallows flashing, dancing dragonflies, reeds as tall as me—ordinary scenes we ignore. Dozens of steps to a zigzag bridge—water left, withered lotus right, most leaves yellow-brown, some pale green floating; rain on leaves—‘keeping broken leaves to hear rain.’ Tired, I sat on a stone; ants and nameless insects—a world apart, like me now. Hadn’t I seen this as a child? Aunties on the next stone discussed houses; I looked away, wanting to stay a beetle. I checked my phone—half an hour to the train. Dust on my pants, I ran toward East Station.”

No time to think; he flips to “Boring Diary”:

Rain fell; my soul went to pasture. Autumn’s sound had not arrived, but I saw winter’s soul.

Dark now; tired, he lies down and sleeps.

(To be continued)