The Wild

Ever since high school, the radius of my life has been confined to the city. After spending so long among high-rise buildings, I cannot help but miss the feeling of the open countryside.

What kind of feeling is it, exactly?

It is the dullness of a long afternoon, with the sun quietly baking the earth. It is also the sudden freshness of the air at dusk, when brilliant clouds spread across the horizon. Water pumps rumble through the fields day and night, while insects rustle and chirp in the grass. There are mosquitoes, flies, and other irritating little creatures, of course, but overall, it is still a night worth being happy about.

When I was preparing for exams, I once sat for a long time on the steps outside my old home. The air was clear that day, and the clouds drifted slowly in the same direction. I felt as though I were sitting inside a vast cockpit, piloting the ground beneath my feet as it travelled into the distance.

A large part of my idea of the wild also comes from video games.

The broad stretches of white clouds on the menu screen of Plants vs. Zombies, for example, always remind me of the afternoon when I struggled to choose between the humanities and sciences. Through the window screen, I watched the clouds outside drift continuously across the sky.

There is also the Jiangnan Wilderness map in Fantasy Westward Journey. The watermelon fields, the old woman, and the lush trees and grass all seem perfectly placed.

To me, the wild feels free, clear, expansive, and unhurried.

Ever since I put a small fan on my desk at work, I have found myself turning it on instinctively, even when I am not hot. Moving air always gives me the illusion of being outdoors. When I wipe my face with the purified-water tissues I bought from Hema, I cannot resist holding them close to my nose. For a moment, I almost believe I can smell the fresh sweetness of watermelon—the scent of summer.

“The wild” is such an enchanting phrase.

I am not someone who particularly enjoys going out. Even when I do, there is usually a moment when I begin to feel bored.

A few days ago, I came across a post on Jike. It said that for people who have lived in the mountains and countryside for a long time, the beautiful life we imagine may be outweighed by the heaviness of reality. In other words, some people may have already grown tired of the wild.

But what does that have to do with me?

Do I need to question my own affection for a place simply because someone else has grown weary of it?

I really do love the wild.

Perhaps it is only the kind of love expressed in the story of Lord Ye, who claimed to love dragons until a real one appeared. The wild I love may not be the damp and muddy place of reality, filled with mosquitoes, hard labour, and inconvenience. It has always grown in my dreams, existing in my memories and imagination.

Even so, I still love it.

Because I have grown tired of the city.