It's a green net soil, and I'll always be there. Whenever, wherever, close my eyes, I can go back to the grassland.
My eyes ran all over the prairie, walking between Mongolian bags, herds of sheep and green grass, walking far and far back to childhood. That was the year before I was going to primary school. There were many Han people in town. It appears that overnight, they came in and built train stations, shops, restaurants, schools, hotels, banks The Han people were scattered all over the streets. They make money, they make money, they get busy. We're surrounded by Hanmen.
Where I can see them, they're all Han people, who come together and say in strange language that I don't know, in clothes different from us, short, thin and strange. There's always a bloodless silence on the face. I walk in the street and I feel like they're looking at me differently, cold and indifferent - people who first took over my home and then surrounded me.
In school, I became an impurity living among the Han people. They're always so noisy, they're in groups, they're surrounded by an agitated wall, they're moving, they're moving, they're moving. It's hot, I can't breathe. I'm like a weak fly bug. There are shadows of them everywhere, from morning to night, not a moment away. All I remember was going through the walls of the school, running and running, stretching my legs, crossing the road, crossing the traffic flow, turning back on the growing tide... I'm exhausted, I'm panting, I just want to run to the meadow.
My prairie, lubricing me, wetting me, absorbing my skin into the prairie, is waiting for me. There's no need to say hello, sheep, Mongols, milk tea, and an endless green - they know I'm here. The familiar Mongolian rumours are ringing again, and Samson's rare chorus, very gentle and drunk, reminds me of Mom's whispers. They're all outside the wall, my deepest part.
I'm the real myself when I want to draft the original. The body melts in that imagination, even the sound of blood flows faster... The eyebrows are a little softer, yeah, that's it. Deeper. It's just me.
My eyebrows are always wrinkled, and sometimes with my fingers. Look, it's still shaking where the knots are. The wall built by the Han people has been around me and has never disappeared. They wrote over and over and over again about my eyebrow, dragged me out of the grassland and into the new world -- into a more open, more complex and more glamorous landscape... I don't know. Again and again, the forces of the foreign race have eroded me, turning me into a deformed island, floating outside the majority of the population.....unbalanced, heavy, painful...
I can't help it. There's always a voice calling me: close your eyes and run. Go to the prairie, to the deeper prairie, keep running, the prairie, it's waiting for you...
"I'm watching."