In the spring of the south, the humid and hot air spreads in the morning, as if even breathing carries a hint of stickiness. I ride my electric bicycle, weaving through the city streets, taking the little one to school. The child sits on the back seat, singing his favorite songs, allowing me to feel a touch of freshness in the humid air.
The child is the light of my life. For him, I wake up early every day, just to earn a stable income to maintain this small home. The meaning of life has long been simplified to the child’s smile; every time I drop him off and watch him happily walk into the school gate with his backpack, a pang of bittersweetness surges in my heart. He is so small, yet he must face the rules of life early on, while I strive to provide him with a safe haven.
After dropping off the child, I continue along my route to work. My commute passes through the urban village, where the mornings always seem a bit different. On the roads, crowded vehicles and electric bicycles compete for time. Under the gray sky, everything appears somewhat dim, and the humid air makes one feel stifled, as if even time has become sticky.
Here, one can always see some young people. Most of them dress in alternative styles and wear elaborate makeup, but it could also be that I cannot see clearly, as if they are from this era’s “Shamate.” These young people seem more like they have just finished a night of revelry, preparing to return to their rented rooms for some sleep, waiting for the next meal to arrive, or heading out for another night of partying to make a living.
On both sides of the road are mostly restaurants that have not yet opened, with a few delivery vans parked at the entrance. From these vans, oil, vegetables, rice, and other supplies are unloaded to prepare for a new day. These shops are mostly the “standard configuration” of the urban village, providing cheap yet satisfying meals to meet the daily needs of the surrounding community.
I ride my bike, feeling the unique atmosphere of life in the urban village. The buildings here are dense and low, mostly self-built rental houses by villagers, lacking unified planning, appearing chaotic. However, it is this chaos that fills the urban village with a sense of liveliness. Here is the dwelling place for many people from the tall buildings outside, a starting point for many hopes.
The spring in the south should be a season full of vitality, but in the urban village, it feels somewhat heavy. Those young people, that gray sky, all remind me that life is not just about the hustle for family; there is another possibility. However, this possibility seems to drift further away from me.
Perhaps one day, I will stop and, like those young people, live only for myself. But today, I must continue to move forward. Because I know that the child’s smile and expectations for life are the driving forces behind my relentless efforts. It is this sense of responsibility that allows me to find my meager value in an ordinary life. Yet, every time I pass through the urban village and see those young people, a wave of sadness rises in my heart. They seem free, yet they also appear to be lost, and am I not also in the torrent of life, unable to find my own home?