The world has long changed. Ju Fufu stood in the cold wind on the corner of the street, with the rusty pot in her hand, like a symbol of her life – dilapidated but not discarded. She knocked on the pot lid, making a dinging sound, and the sound was faintly mixed with sadness and stubbornness. The popcorn exploded in the pot, like the fragmented hope, and also like the suppressed breath of this society.
Her hands are no longer young, and her face is engraved with the ups and downs and scars of life. Ju Fufu is not a simple popcorn seller, she is a microcosm of the bottom of this society, an existence forgotten by the times. The sound of the pot is not just a shout, but more like a roar of life and an accusation of this indifferent world. She uses the simplest way to keep herself alive.
“People have to have something to live.” She said to herself. But this “something”, for Ju Fufu, is this pot, the noisy pot lid sound and the popcorn explosion, which is the proof of her survival. The world is in a hurry, who can hear her voice that has been worn away by time?
Once, she also had dreams, family, and expectations, but those beautiful things were like popcorn in the pot, fleeting. Her husband died early, her children moved away, and she was left with only this pot and the cold wind on the street corner. Society is like a huge machine, ruthlessly devouring the weak. The pot in her hand kept ringing, as if trying to piece together those broken dreams.
The sound of her pot lid was not to please anyone, but for herself, for the meaning of life. Those popped popcorns were like scattered years, white, short, and fragile. Just like her life, it suffered countless blows, but still insisted on knocking in this cold corner.
The pedestrians on the street were in a hurry, and no one stopped to see her or listen to her story. But the sound of the pot lid became clearer and clearer, like a silent protest. Every knock of Ju Fufu hit the wall of this city and echoed in every indifferent soul. That is a cry for survival, a sorrow for being forgotten, and a vague expectation for the future.
She has no capital, no background, only a pot and an unyielding persistence. Her figure is stretched out by the light, like a lonely shadow, swaying on the edge of society. The smell of popcorn and the sound of the pot lid are all traces of her life and the language of her dialogue with the world.
“To live is to resist.” She said softly. Resist those invisible pressures, ruthless times, endless poverty and loneliness. The sound of the pot lid is still loud in the cold wind, as if telling the world: Don’t forget this insignificant little person, her story, her existence.
This sound of the pot lid is an accusation of reality, but also a tribute to life. Ju Fufu is not a hero. She has no lofty words, only the most real persistence. Those neglected corners and those forgotten faces have become warm and have sound because of the sound of the pot lid.
She knocked on the pot lid, and the sound was like knocking on the sleeping conscience, reminding us not to forget those who are struggling on the edge of life. Popcorn popped into white flowers, just like the impermanence and fragility of life, but Ju Fufu still held on, and her knocking sound became the deepest echo of the night.
Life is so difficult, and living is so hard. In this dark era, there are too many people like her, silently enduring suffering, but without a sound. The sound of Ju Fufu’s pot lid is the faint but firm starlight under the gray sky.
She used the pot lid to knock on the pulse of life, knocking open the wounds of the times, and also knocking on the meaning of life. The indifference of the world cannot cover up the warmth and unyieldingness flowing in the sound of the pot lid. Every ding-dong is her life singing, and it is the simplest expectation for tomorrow.