I was sitting in a train, one of those old green slow trains in China. Wheat field outside the window was golden again which reminded me of what the fox said: before she met the little prince, wheat didn't mean anything to her, but after she met him, it became the colour of his hair. In that moment, while I was remembering the fox and the little prince, I believed somewhere there must be a girl looking at some chestnuts and thinking of the colour of someone's hair.
It was the harvest season, when I used the word "harvest", I had no idea what did it really mean, how to harvest, how did it feel to harvest, what machine or tools should I use, what time of the day should I go to the field to harvest with other farmers. What is the sound of harvesting? There would be birds and other animals trying to follow us and get some easy food. Would they like it? Were the machines too loud and scary? Would any of them get hurt? What do they think of our behaviour?
I was sitting in another train, one of those red slow regional trains in Germany. The golden colour outside the window appeared and disappeared, villages appeared and disappeared, trees standing in middle of no where appeared and disappeared: like a fast forwards played movie, between these frames, I suddenly saw a big red fox, the train was a slow train, but too fast for me to look carefully at a fox outside the window. I turned my shoulder, almost pressed my face on the window, I opened my eyes as wide as I can, tried really hard to look at the fox as long as I can, I tried to expand the few seconds into minutes, into hours, into days, so that I would never forget that I met a fox like a fire that day. There are things like this, I do not want to forget, even I can only experience it for few seconds.
That afternoon later, I met a dead fox, lying alone on side of a road, eyes wide open. Who knows when or where we would meet foxes, were they alive or died painfully.
Outside the fast forwards window, some black birds were flipping their wings over the golden wheat waves like in the painting Vincent did in 1890 summer, in the last week in his life.
15th April 2021