Since starting work, I have occasionally suffered from nighttime insomnia due to stress. After going through a two-month-long bout of insomnia, I decided to take a trip to Tibet to ease my mind.
My first trip to Tibet was in October. The golden hues of early autumn dotted the fading deep green of the grasslands and forests.
That year, the rainy season ended later than usual, which was not good news for someone like me who dislikes rain.
As I drove through Nagqu City, the earthy scent kicked up by the rain drifted into my nose. Unexpectedly, I sensed a trace of calmness, and the tight string that had been stretched in my heart for years finally loosened slightly in that very moment.
Later, I got lost, but stumbled upon a temple hidden deep in a pine forest. The vermilion temple gate was half-open, and the silence was so profound that I could hear pine needles falling to the ground. A monk named Losang handed me a bowl of butter tea; the warmth of the rough pottery bowl traveled from my fingertips all the way down to my stomach. He said, "The wind doesn’t rush to find its direction, so why should people hurry?" As he told stories of squirrels hiding pinecones among pine branches and prayer flags "talking" to tree leaves as the wind blew, my clenched hands suddenly relaxed.
At night, lying on the bed, I watched the light from the butter lamps in the main hall filter through the window, accompanied by the soft, low chanting of scriptures. Gradually, I closed my eyes, listening to the sparse raindrops pattering on the roof. For the first time in a long while, I felt sleepy before midnight.
I woke up in the middle of the night. When I pushed open the door, I was greeted by a sky full of stars—so bright that they seemed to illuminate the empty desolation deep in my heart. It was then that I realized: all these years, I had been chasing after what others thought I "should have," only to lose sight of what I truly wanted—what I "could have."
Right after leaving Tibet, I submitted my resignation letter. The pine needle I picked up from the temple was tucked into the notebook I often read. Now, I rent a small house near the temple. At night, I fall asleep to the sound of fluttering prayer flags; during the day, I watch squirrels scurrying past the windowsill, holding pinecones in their paws. The wind carries the warmth of pine branches, and the sky is always dotted with unsetting stars. At long last, my heart has found a place to settle here.
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