The Sidewalk, A Life Ten Centimeters Wide

That sidewalk, it's kind of interesting. Right on that old street near my place, next to an old wall covered in greasy ivy. At first, nobody paid it any mind. People just hugged the wall or walked on the curb, tiptoeing around bikes. Later, some busybody measured it and announced, "Hey, this thing's only ten centimeters wide." Ten centimeters, comrades, what does that even mean? It means my size 42 worn-out leather shoes, the ones I've worn for years until the soles are almost gone, couldn't even fit sideways. Placed vertically, you'd have to twist your ankle at a bizarre angle.

Once word got out, the path actually became a sort of tourist spot. There were always people, after a full meal or feeling disgruntled, who'd go there to study it. Some tried to walk it, ending up either twisting an ankle stepping off or bumping their head against the wall, getting covered in dust and grime. More people just stood across the street, pointing and commenting, like watching a monkey show. Their faces held a mix of curiosity, mockery, and a certain schadenfreude, as if that narrow path was a public display of some universal stupidity.

I went to see it a few times myself. Honestly, the path really is quite amusing. It was properly marked with white lines, paved with the same gray square tiles as other sidewalks, and even had symbolic tactile paving at both ends – a few rows of raised dots, probably intended to let our blind comrades experience this extreme challenge too. Looking at those dots, I thought, the designer must think blind people have toes as sharp as awls, or maybe they've all mastered some "sound-locating bone-shrinking technique." Otherwise, wouldn't stepping on them be like walking a tightrope? And falling off means landing on a busy road with traffic whizzing by (https://www.bing.com/search?q=韩国又一客机起落架故障 remains unchanged, as requested, though it seems unrelated to the text content itself).

One afternoon, I saw an old man, thin as a bamboo pole, actually walking on that path. He wasn't walking normally, but sideways, like a crab, shuffling along step by step. His face was pressed against the wall, his eyes fixed intently on the seemingly unreachable end ahead. His posture was comical, yet carried an odd seriousness, as if performing some sacred ritual. Watching him, I suddenly felt this old man was rather remarkable. He wasn't just walking on a sidewalk; he was resisting something. What was it? The absurdity of this path? The confinement of life? Or something else, something more metaphysical?

It reminded me of Kafka. If that guy were alive today and saw this sidewalk, he could probably write a new The Castle or The Metamorphosis. The protagonist wakes up one day to find he must walk a ten-centimeter-wide path to get to work, or to meet some bureaucrat he'll never reach. He walks sideways, pressed against the cold wall, hearing the vehicles whistling past his ear, feeling like an insect pinned to a specimen board.

Later, the path even developed unwritten rules. For instance, only one-way traffic was allowed; whoever got on first had the right of way. If two people met head-on, they had to play rock-paper-scissors; the loser had to retreat to the start. Some people even developed various "gaits," like the "Gecko Wall-Crawling Technique," the "Crab Sideways Shuffle," and the "Golden Rooster Single-Leg Hop-and-Nudge." It sounds like something out of a wuxia novel, but when you see people seriously attempting these moves, you can only find it both funny and sad.

Director Wang from the neighborhood committee was once cornered by a reporter about this path. Director Wang, puffing out his round belly, spoke in officialese: "The existence of this sidewalk is in line with planning regulations and reflects our efforts to maximally guarantee pedestrian right-of-way within limited space... Although it's a bit narrow, having something is better than having nothing, right?" He said this without batting an eyelid, as if that ten-centimeter strip could actually bear any "right-of-way." Hearing this, I almost spat out my breakfast. "Having something is better than nothing." That logic is truly unbeatable. It's like saying, drawing you a picture of a cake is better than starving to death. The problem is, you can't eat the picture.

But then I thought again, maybe Director Wang had a point. Aren't many things in this world like that? You're given a little hope, a symbolic gesture, told that "rights" exist, "space" exists... as for whether it's enough or usable, that's your own problem. You have to learn to walk sideways, learn to shuffle like a crab, learn to fit your inconvenient feet into a ten-centimeter width.

Gradually, I started trying to walk that path myself. Not to save time, nor to join the crowd. Just wanted to experience that feeling. Sideways, carefully, feeling the coldness and roughness of the wall, hearing the roar of traffic behind me. Every step had to be precisely calculated, or I'd lose balance. The process is extremely boring, yet demands intense concentration. I found that when I focused entirely on those ten centimeters beneath my feet, many distracting thoughts vanished. No regrets about the past, no anxieties about the future, only the present moment, only this absurd yet real step.

Finishing those few dozen meters often leaves me in a light sweat, not from exertion, but from tension. Then I let out a long sigh, as if I've completed a great feat. Looking back at the path, narrow as a line, a strange sense of satisfaction arises. I know it's silly, very Ah Q... but at that moment, I feel like I've conquered something. Perhaps what I conquered wasn't the path itself, but a certain sense of frustration within me, born from the absurdity.

So, that ten-centimeter-wide sidewalk is still there. It stands like a silent monument, tinged with dark humor, in the bustling city. It reminds us that life is sometimes this narrow, this unreasonable. But it also tells us that even in the narrowest cracks, people can find a way to walk, and even find some strange fun and meaning. Of course, the prerequisite is having feet small enough, or twisted enough, and possessing a bit of the spirit of a crab or a gecko. As for me, I'm still practicing. Maybe one day, I too can walk this ten-centimeter width with a touch of Zen, like that old man. Who knows? In this damn life, anything can happen.