Savoring a Solitary Night

 　　As the years go by, the pace of life becomes increasingly hurried. However, in the midst of this busyness, the heart loses its direction. At times like these, I read Tang poetry.

　　More than a thousand years ago, on a rainy autumn night, in a quiet temple, the poet Wei Yingwu, weary from his travels, tossed and turned, unable to sleep. The surroundings were so quiet! So quiet that he could hear the leaves falling from the trees. These falling leaves struck the poet's heart, making him feel even more lonely and desolate. At such a moment, he thought of his friend, Cui Zhubu. A thousand words welled up in his heart, urging him to express them. He simply got out of bed, put on his robe, and lit a lamp.

　　What should he write to his friend? How could he express his feelings? The poet sat under the lamp, pondering. The night grew deeper, the pattering rain outside the window never ceasing, and in the darkness, fireflies, flashing their faint light, flew towards the high pavilion. This celestial sound, this beautiful natural scenery, all moved the poet deeply. A gust of cold wind swept by, and he shivered, touching his thin clothes, overwhelmed with emotion. The chill of the autumn night and the hardships of his fate stirred his heart and brought tears to his eyes. So he picked up his brush and, with flowing strokes, penned that timeless masterpiece: Wei Yingwu's "Living Alone at the Temple at Night, Sent to Registrar Cui": "The recluse lies awake, leaves falling in profusion. Cold rain darkens the deep night, fireflies flit across the high pavilion. I sit here until the lamplight illuminates the dawn, still lamenting the thinness of my summer clothes. Who knew that as the year draws to a

　　close, my separation from my family would bring even greater desolation?" At that moment, holding this Tang poem in my hands, my heart suddenly calmed. As a busy modern person, I use life as an excuse to rush about, never having experienced the solitary beauty of nature. The sound of falling leaves in the autumn rain, the beautiful fireflies flitting towards the high pavilion—these are beautiful scenes I never even dared to imagine. Even when we're feeling sentimental, we don't write a poem for a friend like the ancients did, then wait patiently across mountains and rivers for a long time before the friend finally receives the letter and understands the writer's feelings. That friendship, refined by time and the passage of time, becomes exceptionally rich and captivating, like a fine old wine.

　　We modern people have telephones and emails; a thousand words can be delivered in the blink of an eye. It's fast, but compared to the ancients, it lacks that genuine, heartfelt feeling of connection and deep concern.

　　Slowing down the pace of life, occasionally turning off the computer and television, listening to the whispers of a falling leaf in the patter of rain, sharing the joy of a small insect's prose—only then can we truly experience the essence of life!