Disappearing Answers

In those days, knowledge was still encased in paper shells, like fragile cicada exuviae, waiting to be ripped open to release the so-called "fate." But fate, you know, is like Schrödinger's cat; before the box is opened, it both exists and doesn't exist.

The truck driver, Old Wang, was a taciturn man with more wrinkles on his face than the roads he'd traveled. He drove his dilapidated Jiefang truck, carrying a load of answer sheets that determined the fate of countless people, bumping along the national highway. He felt like a fertility god, except he wasn't delivering babies, but rather the ethereal "future."

"Damn it," Old Wang spat, cursing the damn weather and the disappointing road. Suddenly, a sharp turn, the truck body tilted sharply, like a drunken strong man, staggered a few steps, and finally failed to stand firm, crashing to the ground.

The truck compartment split open, like a torn mouth, spewing out a pile of white paper. The answer sheets were scattered all over the ground, like a flock of frightened white pigeons, shivering in the wind.

The news spread quickly, like a virus. Some cheered, as if they saw an opportunity to change their fate; some beat their chests and stamped their feet, feeling that their lives had been completely destroyed by this accident.

"This is really... a fucked up world." In the crowd, a young man wearing glasses muttered. His name was Li Ming, and he was one of the candidates for this exam. He felt like a clown being played with by fate; he had worked so hard for so long, only to be defeated by an accident.

"It's all dust anyway, sooner or later." He sneered, as if mocking himself, and as if mocking this absurd world.

The police arrived and put up a cordon, as if guarding some precious treasure. But what they were guarding was just a pile of paper covered with words, and in the wind, they seemed so light that they could be blown away at any moment.

"Search! We must find all the answer sheets!" A person who looked like a leader shouted hoarsely. His voice drifted in the wind, as if chasing those answers that had already disappeared.

People began to search frantically, in the dirt, in the grass, in every possible place. They were like a group of hungry ants, looking for food to fill their stomachs. But what they found were just pieces of paper that had been contaminated and torn, covered with distorted answers.

Li Ming stood outside the crowd, watching coldly. He felt that all of this was like a farce, a meaningless carnival.

"Answers? The answers are long gone." He murmured, his voice low and hoarse, as if squeezed from the depths of his throat.

"What did you say?" A policeman came over and looked at him suspiciously.

"I said," Li Ming raised his head and looked directly into the policeman's eyes, "the answers were never on these pieces of paper."

The policeman was stunned; he didn't know how to answer. He felt that this young man was crazy, but he also faintly felt that what he said might be the truth.

Night fell, and the searching crowd gradually dispersed. On the national highway, only the overturned truck remained, like a lonely gravedigger, guarding those answers that could never be found.

The wind was still blowing, scattering the pieces of paper, and also scattering the so-called "fate."

Li Ming left; he didn't look back. He knew that the real answers were not in the past, nor in the future, but in every present moment, every choice, every moment blown by the wind. Those disappearing answers, like those forgotten years, remained forever in the wind, becoming the dust of history. And this dust fell on everyone's shoulders, silently, but as heavy as a mountain.