In the book, the author, in his sixties, recalls his childhood when his gaze was fixed on ants and their nests. As we grow up, our perspective shifts with our height, and the focus of our lives changes accordingly.

I cannot imagine myself at sixty, even though I’ve lived through almost half my life. Unable to envision that future perspective, I sometimes steal glances at my father’s eyes. The traces that time has carved on his physical being are deeply etched in my mind. Yet his soul remains profoundly unfamiliar to me – this stems from my own fear, a fear of imagining. I despise my own life, my cowardice and inaction, and I can’t bear to reflect on the life he has lived. I only dare to peek, watching his frozen gaze directed forward. At sixty, my father’s age, will there still be space and leisure for contemplation? Will I still attempt to think? I’ve never asked how he contemplates life and his own existence.

As for longevity, I’ve never presumed to live as long as my grandmother. When I was young and grandfather was still alive, grandmother would joke with him, saying if he went first, she’d tie a rope and follow him. Back then, she couldn’t imagine what kind of life it would be to remain alone in this world.

During New Year’s Eve lunch, my uncles discussed hiring a caretaker for grandmother while she sat nearby, basking in the sun. No one asked for her opinion; she seemed to melt into the sunlight, and perhaps no one even realized she was there. Uninvited, she didn’t participate. Was she listening? Was she thinking? Or did she realize during this process that there was no need to join in, that it was better to empty her mind or detach herself? Now, approaching ninety, even living with mild dementia, life continues. Regardless of desires or wishes, people naturally want to live on.

And so do I, living naturally while worrying about losing my ability to think in the future. To give up thinking is to give up freedom.