Most people in China don't like to move, even in famine years. Most people are content with their motherland and refuse to leave. They would rather eat Guanyin soil and wild vegetable skin every day, and they are afraid of losing their basic right to die, but there are exceptions, such as going home is what most people like.
13 years 1 month 12 in the early morning.
A few days ago, I packed my luggage with my back, but not much. I went to school, finished my last class before the Spring Festival, bid farewell to all my classmates and began to wait for boarding time at the station. I didn't sleep very well the night before. I haven't been back for three years. My mind has been churning with the colorful appearance of my hometown, which is as overwhelming as a tsunami. Insomnia feels good at this time, but my eyes are a little swollen. ...
When I arrived at the station at noon, it was raining in Mao Mao, and several temporary carports were built in the square. The crowd surged and it was dark. It never occurred to me that there were so many people living on Kashima that they all appeared in the blink of an eye, making people breathless. The waiting signs leading to all parts of the country are scattered on various pillars, and the red letters on a white background are also clear. It seems that I found the site to go home soon. There are already two "Z"-shaped long queues in front of me, most of which are outside the waiting shed and let it rain. Fortunately, Xiamen is not cold in winter. In front of me is an uncle, thin and small but energetic, who refuses to put down a heavy burden. The giant snakeskin bags at both ends of the pole kept shaking from side to side with the movement of the pole, and they were as even as regular, so I had to flash from side to side, and uncle looked back a few times. Grinning, showing brown teeth, very tolerant. The front line hasn't moved for a long time, and the clothes worn for a long time in the morning are not decent. The nearby World Trade Center has become more and more fresh after being washed by rain. After a few more eyes, I feel a little attached to the city where I have lived for four or five years.
Finally, with the cry of the aunt who cut the ticket, the entrance of the station opened and people poured in like a concentration camp. The original beautiful objects suddenly disappeared, mixed with dialects and running sounds from all corners of the country, which made the crowd boil. Swearing sounds with different accents fill the eardrum, which makes people marvel at the "profoundness" of Chinese. I kept a sober and elegant appearance and walked smoothly to the carriage. The train in front of me is obviously very old. It really makes people suspect that it is just a pile of broken tractor connectors: the leather on the seat was rudely turned over to reveal its yellow and black sponge. As soon as I sat down, a little active air was squeezed out from the gap between the sponge and the leather, making an embarrassing sound of "poop-poop". Most people who go home are more like moving, and large and small luggage packages are piling up. The overhead luggage rack groaned from time to time. Some popular people are greeting their relatives and friends who sent them away, rolling their eyes and looking around, showing their superiority beyond words. People with a bigger appetite can't wait to open the package, which is extremely rich in content, including melon seeds, fruits, bacon and drinks. They just took out one and put it in their mouth. Obviously, they exercise more on weekdays, and their mouths are flexible and open.
Travel time spent on the train has always been a headache, so I talked to a middle-aged man who bought a short-distance station ticket. This elder brother Zhang is knowledgeable. He flies from Yang Liwei to his house and ants move under the wall. He knows everything. Even the brand of President Bush's toilet can be accurately revealed. As he spoke, he sat down rudely and pushed me aside. Soon, he became deep and silent.
When I was bored, I began to look around. Sitting opposite me is a couple in their forties. The man is proud of the spring breeze with a smile, and the woman snuggles happily on his shoulder. A messy hair dawdled back and forth on a man's brand-new suit. I'm really worried that the suit will get up early. I vaguely heard the couple discussing the expenses of Chinese New Year in dialect, and the topic seemed to be in dispute, so the man raised the decibel rate and shouted loudly. A few lively spittle gently flew to my face ... The woman was persuaded, and the man was naturally very proud. When he was excited, he fiddled with the long tie tied around his neck, clearly revealing the trademark that had not been cut before.
The roller and the rail repeatedly hit each other, making a "thumping" sound. It was dark outside the window, and many people in the car had fallen asleep. The person opposite is holding a book "The Story King" and reading it with relish. His eyelids gradually became heavy, and he finally fell asleep.
It was the second day when I woke up, and the train had already entered my hometown. The original noise of the carriage was restored, and after dozens of hours of bumps, it finally reached G station. I think: a small carriage is a teahouse I saw, a miniature of migrant workers returning home. I was born a commoner and lived in a foreign country, so I felt a lot and my thoughts overflowed. The three-year trip home is worth remembering, but I don't know my writing.