Farms abandoned, trees uncut stretching to the sky freely, grass grow crazily, houses built 100 years ago damaged by the wind, rain, snow and ice, and now even more seriously deteriorated by the earthquake.

Young men, some with their wives, gone out working in gold mines far and far away; children went to school and only return at weekends. Young girls married with boys outside of the village. The olds pass away every year one by another.

Now the silent, silent village, is a camp of old, crippled, ill, and women.

Many years ago, I had a dream of building a road that can pass 4-wheel vehicles (even tractors acceptable) to my home on the mountain.

Now the dream comes true and even beyond my expectation. It’s a cement road, hardly can I imagine. But rarely have there any people walking or motors driving on the road.

My countryside has been withering since the past ten years or even earlier.

31 years ago when I was born, there were 100 hundred people, now may be 40.

Young boys in high schools will go to universities, those in universities may never come back to live on the mountain again—they become, as I have turned in to, visitors.

More than a hundred years ago, my ancestors came to this wild land, colonized, farmed, lived on. 10 years ago, this village was still busy and prosperous. My grandpa and grandma described the busy image to me time by time.

Neighbors and my family seed in spring and harvest in fall. Youngsters or old men graze here and there. Women are busy cooking, then shout loudly to call their husbands back from farming to have lunch and supper. My grandpa and grandma were still vigorous and strong. They enjoyed congratulations of relatives and friends from different places on their birthdays, the days of big parties and banquets.

Now, these frames only exist in my mind. They are called history, memory, or even illusion.

Being so sad, I am only helpless. I can only watch the withering of my village but doing anything.

I am not sure if this withering process is irrevocable, or the destiny of history.

I even can imagine the future in 10 years: more people die, more children grow up and go out of the mountain, fewer people live till die in the mountain, leave this village wild again, as 100 years ago. Every morning will be broken by twittering of birds instead of cocks, every night will be lightened by moon and stars instead of electric lamps. My ancestors will completely emerge with the soil and rocks of the mountain. The live stories of yesterday and today will only, only exist in my mind for ever.

Should I be happy, or sad?