Several light bulbs embedded in the wall were emitting a faint glow. They were dim and gloomy, with one or two occasionally flickering, reminding me of the high school students who would nod off in class, unable to control their heads from nodding.
The escalator, whether new or old, creaked loudly and rhythmically, as if dragging people with various luggage, causing them great pain. They had to exert all their strength to climb each step.
I half-closed my eyelids, allowing my gaze to sink into a brief darkness, quietly listening to the roar and panting of the beast beneath my feet.
I couldn't remember how many corners I had turned or how many elevators I had taken. Of course, saying that I couldn't remember wasn't entirely accurate; "couldn't be bothered" would be more appropriate. After all, even though it was late at night, the subway station was always filled with tired or excited people. I believed that in such a situation, emptying my mind and going with the flow would lead me smoothly to the terminal.
The night brought tranquility, which in turn bred sorrow, melancholy, and decadence. In a night destined for sleeplessness, taking a moment to be lazy was the only solace.
I rarely travel at night. Compared to the darkness of the night, I prefer to spend some time under the dazzling artificial light, sipping my favorite drink, nestling in a chair covered with a soft blanket, daydreaming, dozing off, or playing a small game.
I wasn't planning to go, and I had already made plans to climb Baiyun Mountain in the spring. But I am not a decisive and resolute person, and as the day approached, I became more and more entangled and hesitant. Finally, after trading a pair of deep dark circles for a good night's sleep, I convinced myself with reasons that even I thought were lame: after all, this was a major event in life, probably only once.
But nowadays, who can really say that something is once in a lifetime?
Tsk tsk, it seems like I'm getting sleepy and shouldn't be saying such unlucky words.
When I came back to my senses, I was already holding onto the handrail, standing steadily on the speeding subway. Now, a few older men were chatting happily.
Their hair was still black, but they had already shown signs of decline, like shrubs on the sand, presenting a cluster of scenes. Especially on the top of their heads, a few dark red patches of soil, uh, scalp, were inevitably exposed; their waists were not thick, but their bellies protruded, giving their shirts a round outline. One of them, who was slightly shorter, was holding onto the top handrail and resting his head on his own fat, tense muscles, chatting enthusiastically with the others.
I couldn't understand their fast-paced, vaguely pronounced words. Although I had heard this dialect many times during my days of work, as a passerby, I had no intention of learning it. Faced with various uncertainties, as a human being, I could easily go to all corners of the earth with the help of the steel torrent, without having to exert any effort on such things.
There's a saying, right? It seems to be called, "Not making connections, only increasing loneliness."
I sniffed and smelled a scent mixed with sweat and a salty taste, which was a sign of an older man. It was the smell one would encounter when a thin needle was inserted into a vein in a hospital room. Perhaps it was because of my weak and sickly childhood, even though I hadn't had a serious illness for many years, this smell still felt familiar to me, even fascinating.
But this was ultimately not a good thing. I quickly glanced at the several men who were laughing heartily; they all looked healthy and energetic, which made me feel happy. Unfortunately, just as I was lost in thought, they walked out with smiles, quickly disappearing into the crowd, their not-so-tall figures submerged.
I smiled. After all, it was a chance encounter, and it was pointless to be entangled in such trivial matters.