A young man and a group of his companions were walking on an endless road leading to a barren, rock-strewn plain. The poisonous fire of the sun scorched from morning till night, and they could not find a place of shade everywhere, and the shrill wind swept up a huge mist of dust.
The young man looked a little impatient and walked ahead; his parched throat was a cruel torture. From time to time he asked himself or his companions, where on earth were they going on the pilgrimage? The answer is never certain, always the same. He himself had forgotten, why did he embark on this journey? He even forgot the land where he was born and raised; he also forgot the destination of his journey.
One evening, he suddenly found himself in a forest. Twilight rises, and all sounds are silent. Perhaps only a sigh came when the evening breeze blew through the tall trees. He stood there with a surprised expression, a hint of tension and doubt in his expression. He was the only one around, and he found that he couldn't hear things very clearly. The relentless light of the day made his ears red and inflamed; his mouth and throat were burning from the long Hajj journey, and his lips were already cracked.
Even if he wanted to curse, he couldn't make a sound. There was water flowing, but he couldn't hear it. He could not see the reflection of the sunset on the water. He stood beside a spring, but because he was almost deaf and blind, he didn't notice the existence of the spring. Unconsciously, like a sleepwalker, he stepped into the sparkling puddle, but fortunately, although he was blind, he quickly landed again with his outstanding ability; Shining, another night, he sat by the campfire next to an old man who was telling the children stories of forests and springs. The young man remembered the past experience, but the memory was hazy, like a dream.
He turned to the old man, and asked humbly and doubtfully, "Where does the water come from?"
"There is a mountain in the distance, the peak is covered by a huge cloud, and that is where the water is."
"What kind of cloud?"
"Everyone has their own hopes, fears and desires. Everyone either shouts out their depression or bears it silently in their hearts; some people pray to God and worship Buddha, and some people cry to the void.
These despair, hope, can't get rid of the shackles . The dream, this kind of crying, the teardrops gathered for thousands of years will condense into the boundless clouds that cover the mountains; outside the clouds, the rainwater flows along the mountains...and then gathers into rolling streams. , and eventually become a river that passes through the woods. If so, there will be a spring to quench your thirst, wash your dry face, and cool your tired feet; the world will always hear the story of this high mountain, cloud, stream, and spring water at some point; but Most people will continue to be anxiously exposed to the scorching sun, rushing on this dusty land." The
young man was very surprised and asked, "Why do they continue to travel?"
"I don't know, maybe they persuaded themselves. And others believe: you will arrive at the unknown destination before evening."
"What unknown destination?" the young man asked.
The old man shrugged, "This so-called destination is probably nothing more than a trap, or an illusion; now, I am also on the road to find that forest, that source.
When I was young, I had I was fortunate enough to set foot in it, and now I just want to find the way back, so let me tell you how easy it is!" On
the second day, the young man and the old set off together. Embark on a journey to find that mountain, that cloud, that forest, and that bubbling source.
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