Earthly life three meters away

My desk is facing a window. Three meters of verdant green, is a tall building. I've never been able to count the number of floors in this building. Like, I never see how many unspeakable secrets are hidden in each window. All I can do is sit here and wait quietly, waiting for each story to overflow the messy branches and leaves, and just so, mysteriously caresses my windowsill.

Almost every window of the building has been cast in the name of anti-theft, so that it can extend half a meter of private space to the half air that no one can stop. In the untouchable corners of urban civilization, everyone learns to stretch out the hidden "ego" freely, and regards everything they do as reasonable.

I can see that the second floor is covered by green trees, and on the extra windowsill, there is a fat white cat lying on a pot of crab claws, squinting to continue a sexual dream that is not satisfied at night. Tiger pilan in the middle of the air, stretching up the fat sexy leaves. A pigeon once in a while passed by, perched on the rusty fence, cooing, and bothering the white cat's dreams. The northern sun, accompanied by the loud and thirsty voice, fell on the peach tree that was left unattended by the window and simply blossomed without fruit.

The man in the window, about 40 years old, was bald early and often pulled open the window rudely to spit a mouthful of sticky phlegm on the clean branches and leaves of the Chinese toon. There was nothing the hapless pile could do but shake helplessly in the wind, trying to get rid of the spit that was fermentating rapidly in the sun, or wait for some sparrow to eat it.

This balding man, who has a 15-year-old daughter, who is slightly mentally retarded, often cries out at night for her father to buy freshly grilled kebabs or ice cream. Sometimes she would come up to the balcony and look over at me, admiring the way I was typing away on my computer. Occasionally I looked up at her and matched her gaze with the same curiosity. She would often turn away in fright, slam the door, and then continue her peeping behind the curtains I could not see.

As she cried hysterically, the only sound in the living room was the coawing voice of an elderly woman, clearly her grandmother or grandmother. In the kitchen, her mother impatiently brushed the frying pan and hurried to cook dinner. The news on the TV was coming to an end, and her father, finally in the midst of her noise, got up and went out to the balcony in silence to smoke the last cigarette before dinner.

As the man smoked, his eyes fell helplessly on a small, thin oleander plant. He at that moment, often let me can not help but sympathize. I guess from his drying uniform that he is a nearby traffic police, when it is outside, there is unlimited prestige, encounter illegal cars, no matter how beautiful the people inside, can mercilessly underground ticket, and in their bitter pleas, there is a consistent majesty. However, when he returned home and faced all the broken things thrown at him by worldly life, he only abandoned the dignity of disguise and silently took over.

The host of the third floor is a young couple who just got married. Lined up on the balcony are flowers that are alive and vivid. There are bright sunflowers, proud cactus, joyful jasmine, elegant Clivia. And a lush hanging orchid, like a waterfall, flows to the windowsill on the second floor.

They sometimes get into arguments, and it's all about the smallest things. The beautiful hostess will angrily run to the balcony, cry, or quietly place a cigarette, do not smoke, just let it burn, the thin and light smoke, with the trouble, drift away. Often without waiting for a cigarette to burn out, the man would be behind her, holding her. After a few wilful, gentle struggles, she turned around and, thumping him and giggling in his arms, went into the bedroom.

I like this young couple, the tenderness of their first marriage, offset my lack of life on the second floor. Think of that life, bitter and sweet, after layers of filtration, after all, can be blended into a cup of safe drinking water. Whether the people walking among them are selfish and careful, cautious in words and actions, or brave and fearless, open-minded and generous, they can peep the green of the onion cage of the outside world through the small window.

As I stood at the window and peered in, there was a constant, shrill noise from the renovation of the building. In the open space between the buildings, those trees that grow freely in the thin soil, they are still in this noisy evening, with the indispensable spirituality and poetry of life. That last ray of sunset, shining on a fruitless peach tree, there is a lifetime unmarried woman's holiness and nobility.

When the noise suddenly stopped, the silence, like a fresh spring, slowly flooded through my window and spilled into every quiet corner of the evening. The whistle of a pigeon in flight, the sound of a child practicing taekwondo in a gymnasium, the chirp of a small worm in a corner, the private and cheerful chirp of a bird, the whistle whistling across the road, the sound of a curtain crashing like waves in the wind; There are concrete ground after the rain, clear footprints, a cluster of moss on the brick, the smell of the earth, at this moment, are like the ripples in the water, a circle, rippling over, has been my every cell, are infiltrated in this wet dusk, for a long time, are not willing to pace away.

I stood at the window, peeking at the incomplete but real earthly life three meters away, and suddenly my heart was filled with infinite tenderness.