Freedom, a dream flowing through the notes

The first time she heard the song was on the highway at midnight. The night was deep and the four people in the car were silent. She didn't ask where the car was traveling to. She was not tired after the four-hour long flight, and the car was spacious, so she leaned against the window and looked out onto the highway illuminated by the headlights, whose light swiftly engulfed the never-ending highway. The vast silence of the car speeding through the night extends indefinitely, and every bone in her body hears the friction of the wheels rolling over the pavement,-focused, determined, tireless. The car is filled with soft music, the song is bright and far away, abruptly, a string of notes flow out, she sat slightly upright body, this song, she has not heard. The female singer sings "Ulan Bator night, so quiet, so quiet, the song gently sung, the wind gently blowing", she did not know the meaning of the song title in Mongolian, outside the window is empty black, the car is silent as the beginning, she always suspected that the quiet has inhibited the power of time and space. If, at this moment, in the deep silence of the night coalesced into a piece of amber, the notes inside the car should be like fine feathers or thin wings. That is the true sign of freedom.

The night is like a river. The car traveled to a gas station, and before she could stop, she was stirred hard by a strange scent in the heavy darkness. It was it! The aroma was so familiar that she knew conclusively it was it. She had never actually seen it before, but had known it intimately, in the gazing and fondling of pictures and words. Unexpectedly, on this dark June night, there was no sign of the encounter, caught off guard. The same car people gas, buy cigarettes and water, she followed the source of the fragrance step by step approaching the supermarket inside, under the dim light, the glass counter on a glass bottle I do not know where to pick up a handful of jujube flowers, quiet, simple. Date palm flower, she wrote about it in the text, deliberately looking for a friend who is good at photography to ask for a photo of it. Her friend said, "I haven't photographed the jujube flower, the flower is too small. She didn't need to fantasize about its fragrance, and was already familiar with the dominance and freedom of its heavenly aroma between heaven and earth. When the jujube blossoms, all flowers lose their fragrance. Before getting on the airplane, she only flashed in her mind about the next, can meet, she did not know. She is convinced that all kinds of encounters in the world karma, hidden in the minutiae such as the Ganges sand.

The next day, on the way to Kerala, midday, the fierce sunshine looked past a few tame. Her eyes hiked through the sunlight, and without warning, a familiar aroma scurried into the car, and there it was again! Her eyes desperately searching the roadside dry pale ditch side, those like weeds as inconspicuous trees, she did not know which a few trees are her longtime friend of the date palm tree. It is so domineering, the car line speeding, still can drill in. Silence in the car, no one talked about, at this moment and the date flower scent of the encounter. Peers do not know her heart at the moment, such as the wind blowing through the grassland, ripples out of a burst of grass waves. Later, the photographer's friend said, if she had smelled the fragrance of maenggui, jujube flowers to be behind. She didn't tell her friend that the fragrance of maeng gui after the rain is sweet and greasy, such as stagnation, such as obstruction, jujube flowers splashed between heaven and earth aroma, elegance, wildness. That is the freedom of nature in the wanton.

When she saw them, she was walking to the second floor, a seemingly endless aroma called her footsteps. Across the wide atrium, she saw a storefront across the street, with a dark green wood-paneled glass door, and a pot of freshly trimmed lilies by each of the two opposing doors. The fragrance of the lilies of the valley is reserved and elegant, but this is not the season for lilies of the valley to bloom, and the scent she smells comes from the freshly cut branches. The entire building is filled with excessively hot warm air, clumped together like a blockade. Even though the warm air is thicker, it can't stop the light aroma from diffusing in the air and meeting those who are familiar with it like a whisper. If sprouting and pumping leaves, blossoming and falling is the language of plants and trees, at this moment, she knows the intermittent whispers of these two plants with smiles. "I left because they would not allow me the freedom to be silent." She thought for no apparent reason of Malloy Sandor, whom she had fallen in love with at first reading. Malloy, a Hungarian novelist and poet, had been banned by the Hungarian government for forty-one years, and when he died, the government posthumously awarded him the country's highest prize, the "Shukot," the only time it has ever been awarded to a deceased person. In February 1989, he drank himself to death at his home in San Diego, USA. He wrote, as he put it, "I should go to another reality, to a small world, choose my characters, and begin my daily ramblings, a kind of simple and eternal dialog, a dialog between my individual life and my destiny." If freedom is killed, then choose to leave.

It's the same song, "Nights in Ulan Bator," that loops through countless quiet afternoons of dimly lit nights as she listens to story after story. Those stories are told as if the notes are linked into sighs, joy, confusion of various colors of sadness and happiness. The wind is free, and so is the music.

The Night in Ulan Bator

There is a place far, far away

There is the wind, there is the ancient grassland

The proud mother looks far away

The gentle Tana speaks softly

The night in Ulan Bator

So quiet, so still

Songs are softly sung, the wind is softly blown

The night in Ulan Bator

The wind is softly blown. The night in Ulan Bator

So quiet, so still

The singer is not allowed to shed tears