Yesterday, a splash of bird droppings landed on me and nestled in the fork of the branches, carrying the scent of the sea—these birds must have just returned from flying over the ocean.

I have pondered for many years: this patch of soil is our fate. No matter how far our roots stretch, we can never reach the opposite shore. Only in death, decay, and collapse can a journey truly begin.

Yet, we possess our own kind of "feathers." When the wind and rain grow fierce enough, our bodies sway wildly, every branch spreading like wings and dancing in place. Leaves and twigs whirl into the sky, carried by the wind—these are our message bottles, cast adrift without expectation of reply, for the wind does not blow toward those who wait. This act is philosophical—not by my will, but by the wind's.

I have no wings, yet I long to see the sea.

Perhaps one day, in some year or month, under some resolve, I might uproot myself and rush toward the Yangtze River, drift downstream, bid farewell to this island where I grew, and journey all the way to the open sea.