I have never felt the need for a trip as much as when I embarked on my journey to Taiwan. At that time, I was going through a period of setbacks. The fast-paced life had made me yearn for the taste of slowness. I wasn’t as easily moved and joyful as before. Why? I wasn’t living in accordance with the laws of nature. Exhausted during weekends, I would draw the curtains, turning my room into darkness for sleep in broad daylight. Late at night, I would endlessly scroll through social media, unable to sleep. Years of suboptimal health had taken a toll on me. The scattered pain in my body and the mental stress at work were like a wall, cutting me off from the outside world.
My vision allows me to see flowers, but I can’t witness the transition from bud to bloom, nor do I have time to admire the delicate colors of their petals. I can’t even distinguish which flowers bloom during which seasons. My hearing is intact, but I can’t hear the morning birdsong. Their short melodies on tree branches are replaced by the urgency of alarms. Seeing without perceiving, hearing without listening—this must be the state I was in. Learning and working hard are unquestionably essential tasks, things we must do. However, sinking under stress and forgetting to perceive is undeniably wrong. The balance between reason and emotion, logic and artistry, and the control and release of emotions—all need equilibrium. I need to hear the melodious tunes on the street, smell the aroma of bakery shops, see the beauty of the world, and engage in conversations with strangers. I need to feel everything beautiful, slow, and different.
Cry when sad, Embrace loneliness when confused, Strive when in pursuit, Indulge in art when alone.
Is this what growing up feels like? What about the appearance of my youth? I returned to the place where I grew up as a teenager, a neighborhood filled with towering plane trees. However, upon reaching there after half a journey through Shanghai, I discovered that my childhood neighbors, the aroma of pan-fried dumplings, and even the flower garden where we used to play were all gone. In my memories, I used to spend my pocket money on buying cassette tapes of Taiwanese singers. As I grew older, Taiwanese idol dramas built a nest of fantasy about love in my mind. Four years ago, when I first set foot on the island across the Pacific, the warmth and kindness of the islanders made me feel doubly warm. Everything I once fantasized about Taiwan during my carefree days seemed to have been found.
A decision prompted me to return to Taiwan, to rediscover the scent of my youth.