Gasping for Breath in the Park

Lao Li felt that this Qingming short holiday was simply more mentally taxing than going to work. His retirement pension arrived monthly, neither high nor low, enough for basic needs but far from affluence. Supposedly, it was time to enjoy a peaceful life. But how to enjoy this "peace" had now become a field of study, perhaps even bordering on metaphysics.

"Old man, don't just coop yourself up in the house all the time!" Mrs. Li shouted from the kitchen, her voice accompanied by the clatter of pots and pans. "Look, people are saying on their phones, the best way to rest during a holiday isn't sleeping, it's getting out, doing something, clearing your head!"

Lao Li sucked his teeth, saying nothing. He'd just dozed off on the sofa for half an hour, dreaming he was back at the office, being reprimanded by the young director for incorrect report formatting. He woke up in a cold sweat, feeling worse than if he'd actually worked overtime for a day. Clear his head? He reckoned it was more likely to squeeze his brain out.

"Where are we going?" he asked listlessly.

"To Yuyuantan Park to see the cherry blossoms! It's so lively! Post photos on Moments, everyone says they look great!" Mrs. Li came out carrying a plate of smashed cucumbers, full of enthusiasm. "Old Wang next door went yesterday, said the flowers were blooming like clouds!"

Lao Li's heart skipped a beat. Yuyuantan? Qingming? Cherry Blossoms? These words combined in his mind to automatically generate an image: people, nothing but people, crowds, people squeezing past people, people packed shoulder to shoulder. That wasn't appreciating flowers; it was attending a back-of-the-head exhibition. But seeing the "if you don't go, you're disrespecting me" look on his wife's face, he swallowed the rest of his complaints. Fine, fine, risk life and limb to accompany his wife; it was a contribution to family harmony.

The subway was already a preview of the park's spectacle. People were packed like sardines, compressed and churned by some invisible force, then poured out. Lao Li shielded Mrs. Li, feeling like a small boat in a tempestuous sea, liable to fall apart at any moment. The air was a mixture of sweat, perfume, chive pancake odor, and an indescribable restlessness unique to crowds. Lao Li felt this was more strenuous than swinging a sledgehammer back in his factory days.

After much struggling, they finally reached the entrance of Yuyuantan Park. What a scene! Several long queues snaked endlessly at the ticket office, twisting like the game Snake. A few staff members in uniform and red armbands nearby were shouting themselves hoarse trying to maintain order, but their voices were quickly drowned out by the boiling cauldron of human noise. Lao Li suddenly found it rather absurd—all these people, spending money, making such an effort, just to gather in a designated place to "rest" together? This rest seemed more like a collective, mandatory task. Everyone wore an expression of urgency mixed with bewilderment, as if they would miss out on something incredibly wonderful if they didn't hurry inside.

"Look! Didn't I say it would be crowded!" Lao Li couldn't help muttering.

"Crowds mean it's lively! Shows our lives are booming!" Mrs. Li, however, was optimistic, pulling out her phone to figure out the best angle for a face-slimming selfie.

Inside the park, it was even harder to move an inch. The so-called Cherry Blossom Avenue was indeed lined with pink and white flowers, cluster upon cluster, layer upon layer, looking like clouds from afar. But beneath the trees, there was a dense, teeming mass of heads. Want to find an empty spot to stand and take a proper picture? Difficult! Just as you struck a pose, you were either bumped askew or seven or eight smiling strangers photobombed your shot. Mrs. Li, however, was tireless, finding gaps to snap a few photos, even directing Lao Li: "A bit to the left! Yes! Smile! Don't look so serious, we're out having fun!"

Lao Li forced his lips into a grin, feeling the muscles on his face stiffer than the rocks in the park. He genuinely couldn't smile. He watched the people around him: some holding selfie sticks, pouting or making V-signs at the camera; some pushing strollers with babies wailing inside; some carrying large bags of snacks, finding a slightly less crowded patch of grass to start a picnic, leaving litter scattered everywhere; and others, like him, swept along by the crowd, drifting aimlessly, eyes vacant, as if their souls had already gone home to rest.

He wanted to find a place to sit for a moment, to catch his breath. But all the benches were occupied, and even the edges of the lawns, any spot where one could possibly sit, were taken. He even saw people who had brought their own small folding stools, setting up camp wherever they could find a crack. This wasn't a park; it was practically a huge, open-air battlefield named "leisure." Everyone was desperately fighting for that tiny bit of pitiful space and the so-called "experience."

A breeze blew past, carrying a few cherry blossom petals drifting down. Two landed gently on Lao Li's shoulder. He picked one up; its tender pink color and fragile texture felt so unreal amidst the noisy, chaotic surroundings. He suddenly remembered the old locust tree outside his home when he was a child. In spring, it also bloomed with clusters upon clusters of white flowers, bees buzzing around them. Back then, he and a few friends would play with mud under the tree, watch ants move house, playing for a whole afternoon, feeling so grounded and peaceful inside. No one told him that was "resting" back then, but that feeling seemed so much more comfortable than this "scientifically certified" rest now.

Pushed along by the crowd, he reached the lakeside. The water reflected the blue sky, the white pagoda, and the milling figures on the bank, shimmering. A wild duck glided across the water as if no one else was present, leaving a faint ripple. Staring at the duck, Lao Li felt a pang of envy. How free it was, going wherever it pleased, unlike him, pushed and shoved by invisible hands, unable to control his own movements.

"Lao Li! Quick, come here! The view is great here!" Mrs. Li waved from nearby, having managed to snag a spot by the railing.

Lao Li sighed and slowly shuffled over. Leaning against the railing, he gazed at the crowded "spring scenery" before him, yet his heart felt bleak. Was this really rest? Or was it just another form of hustle? Like those perpetually spinning tops, whipped by lashes named "life," "trends," "everyone else is doing it," afraid to stop. Stopping seemed to mean falling behind, being out of step, even signifying a kind of failure.

He suddenly felt like some minor clerk in a Kafka novel, trapped in a vast and absurd system. This system tells you that holidays should be spent going out, consuming, taking photos for social media, and "actively resting." You comply, you squeeze into the sea of people, you perform all the required actions, but what you feel deep down isn't relaxation, but a deeper exhaustion and emptiness. You don't even know what you're pursuing, as if merely completing a ritual to prove you are still "alive," still "enjoying life."

"How about it, old man? Getting out for a walk is better than sleeping at home, right?" Mrs. Li put away her phone, satisfied, and looked at Lao Li.

Lao Li opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but didn't know where to begin. He looked at his wife's wind-reddened cheeks and the light in her eyes—a genuine happiness. Perhaps, for her, this liveliness was the rest she desired. And himself?

He finally just uttered a soft "Mm," a vague response. Then, he turned his head and took a deep breath, but felt he wasn't inhaling fresh air, but something thicker, the clamor infused with the breath of countless people. Here in this park, in this sea of people, he felt an unprecedented suffocation. He just wanted to escape quickly, back to his small, perhaps somewhat dull, but at least quiet home, even if it meant just lying on the sofa, having a mentally taxing dream about incorrect report formats.

As the sun set, the crowds began to ebb towards the exits like a receding tide. Lao Li and Mrs. Li rejoined the flow, pushed along towards the outside. The subway journey back was even more crowded than the one coming. Lao Li leaned against the carriage wall, eyes closed, his mind a blank slate.

Back home, he almost collapsed onto the sofa. Mrs. Li was still excitedly organizing photos, selecting her "masterpieces" to post on Moments.

"Hey, Lao Li," she suddenly asked, "Are we going out again tomorrow? I heard the peach blossoms at the Botanical Garden are also blooming."

Lao Li didn't open his eyes, just let out a weary, indistinct groan from his throat. The sound, like a sigh, perhaps a protest, eventually dissipated into the deepening twilight. Outside the window, the city lights flickered on one by one, illuminating countless souls perhaps equally exhausted by their "rest." He thought, there are probably two kinds of people in this world: those who can find joy in the hustle and bustle, and those who get lost in it. And he, perhaps, belonged to the latter. But what did these words, "rest," truly mean? The more he thought, the more confused he became, unable to tell if this was a holiday, or just a grand, hollow performance involving everyone.