There may be roads in the desert, but there aren't any here.

  Looking far away, there are several lines of crooked footprints.

  Let's walk along the footprints? No, it doesn't work. The places that have been stepped on by others are even harder to walk on. Can only use one's own feet to walk a new road. Looking back, I'm happy for my long footprints. I don't know how long these footprints can be kept.

  The dunes are several giant sand mountains. You can only roll over them, there is no other way. Climbing the sand mountain is an extremely hard and bitter task. As soon as you step on it, with a little force, your feet will slide down loosely. The more force you use, the deeper you sink, and the more severe the slide becomes. After just a few steps, I'm already panting and can't help but get angry.

  I grew up in the mountains of eastern Zhejiang, and as a child I could already run freely over the great mountains. When I was tired, with one burst of energy, I could still sprint to the summit. But here, you absolutely cannot use brute force. The soft fine sand doesn't hurt your feet, nor does it let you stumble, it just gently saps away all your strength. The more fiercely you struggle, the gentler it is, gentle to the point of being hateful. Alas, there's nothing for it but to temporarily still my thunderous anger, relax my feet and wrestle with it.

  If you want to climb the mountain quickly, don't come here. There are plank roads and stone steps, millions of people have walked through, and there will be millions more. Only, it won't leave your footprints - your own footprints. If you come, then admit it, for the sake of desert travelers' rules, for these beautiful footprints.

  The heart is calm and peaceful, slowly crawling. The top of the sand mountain looks higher and higher, no matter how much you climb, it's just like chasing the moon in childhood.

  I've been worried about tonight's accommodation. I'll grit my teeth and not stay, let's climb! I won't care about that distant goal anymore, why scare myself? It's always there, whether you look or not, so what's the point of looking?

  Why not turn around and take a look at the road you've already walked? I actually walked so far, climbed so high! Footprints have become like a long, unattainable ribbon, quietly and freely drawing a wavy curve, one end of which is tied tightly underfoot.

  It's really a big move, and I couldn't help but admire myself.

  Not for the increasingly high mountain peak, but for this already drawn curve, climb.

  No matter where you can reach, just for the life that has been spent, crawl.

  No matter how I say it, I always stand at the end of the road that has been walked - the permanent end, the constantly floating end, my own end, the end that has never retreated.

  The top of the sand mountain is secondary. Just climb, just climb.

  Underfoot suddenly flat, in front of me suddenly wide open, I timidly raised my head to look around - the mountain top was still climbed by me.

  Don't worry at all about accommodation, the sunset in Xitian is still very brilliant.

  The sunset over the endless dunes is a breathtaking view. Light and shadow are divided by the most straightforward lines, with golden and sepia hues being so pure that they seem to have been filtered through a giant sieve. The wind of day and night has shaped the ridges and slopes into waves, which are extremely gentle and flat, without any ripples.

  Everything is fresh and clean, every day and land are arranged in a grand and neat manner. The colors are pure to the point of being sacred, the atmosphere is harmonious to the point of being sublime.

  Why did the monks, believers and artists of all generations choose to pour their faith into the desert sand mountains and build Mogao Caves, Yulin Caves and other caves? Standing here, I understand. I merge my own peak with the mountain's peak, and a heavenly music like the sound of Sanskrit chanting resonates in my heart.

  Just as I climbed to the ridge, I found that there was still a strange phenomenon at the foot of the mountain, and I couldn't bear to take a look. After taking a bird's-eye view, I dared to examine it carefully. It was clearly a bay of clear spring water, lying horizontally at the bottom of the mountain.

  Using any adjectives to describe it would be a blasphemy. It just feels abrupt and strange, quietly hiding in a place where it shouldn't exist, making people's eyes take a long time to get used to it. Even young travelers would exclaim like a loving father scolding his daughter: What kind of place is this? How did you end up here?!

  Yes, this is not the place it should come from. It should come with a turbid torrent, but it is so clear and calm. Or, it should be a larger lake, but it is so slender and elegant. According to its temperament, it should settle on the banks of Fuchun River, among the mountains of Yandang, or under the trees from Hupao to Jiuxi.

  Has the flying sand ever failed to fill it? Has the midnight whirlwind ever failed to dry it up? Have bandits' footprints ever appeared here, relying on its sweet spring for survival? Have gangs of robbers ever gathered their horses here, leaving behind a trail of pollution?

  I was thinking wildly, and immediately I was filled with worry. How could I get close to it? I stood at the summit, but it lay at the foot of the mountain. The slope facing me was steep as a knife cut. At this moment, my previous climb had all turned into sorrow.

  Yearning for the peak, yearning for height, but the peak is only a narrow place that can barely stand. Can't roam freely, can't walk straight, just enjoy the pleasure of overlooking for a moment, how can you stay for long? There's no way up, and it's difficult down, I feel an unprecedented sense of loneliness and fear.

  The truly warm and beautiful colors in the world are all embedded in the earth, hidden in the deep valleys. The height that dominates everything ultimately only constitutes self-mockery. I have seen through its ridicule, so I hastily come to test the steep slope of decline.

  Life is indeed difficult. You can't discover it without climbing to the top, and once you're at the top, you can't get close to it. It seems that we are destined to keep going up and down, up and down.

  Grit your teeth, steel yourself. Something's gotta give, so tuck in your neck, twist your face into a grimace and push off with one foot, then the other. Your entire skeleton is bracing for a heavy impact.

  However, strangely enough, nothing happened. With just two feet, he had already slid down several meters and was standing very steadily. Neither falling forward nor leaning backward, he suddenly transformed into Prometheus on the Caucasus Mountains.

  With a bit more effort, as if entering slow motion, striding like dancing, just ten or so steps down, I arrived at the foot of the mountain.

  I'm utterly stunned: after crawling for several hours with great difficulty, it only took a few steps to get down! Thinking about the solemn determination I had when I stretched my foot out earlier, I couldn't help but burst out laughing. Kant said that comedy is the serious imbalance between expectation and consequence, which is exactly what happened in this situation.

  No time to think of Kant anymore, hastily rushing towards the spring water.

  The bay is not too small, about three or four hundred steps long, with the widest point in the middle equivalent to a medium-sized river. Under the water's surface, clusters of aquatic plants float, making the water color even greener. There are even three black-bodied ducks floating on it, bringing out two long ripples. I really don't know how they flew over thousands of miles of mountains and rivers to find this place. There are trees by the water, not a few of which have twisted roots that wrap around each other, with ages of hundreds of years.

  In short, everything that a quiet and secluded place should have is here. From now on, this bay of spring water has become a lone swordsman in my eyes - relying solely on its own strength, it has created a livable world in the vast desert.

  Behind the tree stood a humble cottage. Just then, an old nun emerged, holding a rosary in her hand, with fine and dense wrinkles on her face that seemed calm.

  She told me that there used to be a temple here, which was destroyed twenty years ago. I couldn't imagine where her livelihood came from, and asked hesitantly, she pointed to a path behind the house and said lightly: Someone will send it over.

  I wanted to ask her many things, such as why she was guarding this place alone for so long? What age did she start coming here? But I felt that asking these questions would be too clumsy for a Buddhist, so I stopped myself. My gaze turned back to the quiet pool, and the answers should all be there.

  Vast desert, surging water, nothing unusual in the world. Only in the vast desert is there such a bay, in the wind and sand such stillness, in desolation such a scene, behind the high slope such a fall, can deeply get the rhythm of heaven and earth, the ingenuity of creation, making people drunk with emotion.

  By extension, life, the world, and history are all like this. Bringing tranquility to turbulence, clarity to urgency, simplicity to grandeur, and elegance to coarseness. Only in this way can life be seen as vibrant, the world as exquisite, and history as having charm.

  So Laoni's lonely vigil was not without reason. When she had listened to a whole night of the startling and thrilling howling wind and sand in her humble room, at dawn, she could wash her ears clean with the clear water. When she had looked enough at the deep green spring water, raising her head, she could gaze at the dazzling sandy wall.

  The mountain is called Mingshashan; the spring is called Yueyaquan. Both are within the borders of Dunhuang.