Ju Fufu stood on the street, holding the old popcorn pot lid in her hand, knocking out a crisp sound, which seemed particularly abrupt in the biting cold wind. This sound penetrated the grayness of winter and the indifferent eyes of pedestrians. The sound of her pot lid is not just the rhythm of performing, but more like a cry of life, seeking a trace of response in the noise and indifference.
The flow of people on the street was hurried, and few people were willing to stop for this sound. Everyone was in a hurry to get on the road, playing a more exciting world on their mobile phones, and their ears were filled with their own stories. Only Ju Fufu still stubbornly knocked on the rusty pot lid, as if she was angry with the whole world. Her voice was harsh, but more memorable than the cold wind.
Her life of selling popcorn has never been praised by anyone. The sound of her pot lid has become the most real background sound of life. Her hands were red from the cold, and her cheeks were burning from the cold wind, but she never stopped tapping. She had to tap out popcorn and a reason to live.
In this world, there are always a group of people like Ju Fufu who are ignored by countless eyes and beaten beyond recognition by life. Their stories are not seen in the headlines of the news, nor will they be praised by writers. The sound of Ju Fufu’s popcorn pot lid is a microcosm of these marginalized lives and a mirror of the absurdity of society.
Ju Fufu knew in her heart that she was just a speck of dust in the city. Those prosperous buildings and flashing neon lights had nothing to do with her. She only had this pot and that pot lid, and a pair of hands that refused to admit defeat. She knew that the sound of the pot lid was too thin to cover up the weight of life, but she still insisted on using the sound to prove her existence.
The cold wind blew, and the popcorn exploded in the pot, as if exploding some of the heaviness in her heart. There was a trace of fatigue and helplessness in her eyes. She thought of the people who had passed by, their eyes were hurried, but they never stopped to ask: “How are you?” This lonely voice was her last call to the world.
The sound of Ju Fufu’s pot lid is not only a symbol of livelihood, but also a ruthless accusation of the city. She knocked on the cold and hard iron pot, just like knocking on the numb society. There was sadness in her voice, but also stubbornness, just like people who still stand after being crushed by life.
The indifference of society is like the cold wind in winter, biting and long. Those homeless souls, those figures struggling on the edge of life, are all looming in the sound of the pot lid. Ju Fufu’s voice is like a rusty knife, cutting people’s numb hearts, making people feel pain, but unable to avoid it.
The sound of the popcorn pot lid is both the noise of life and the music of life. It has no gorgeous words, no poet’s romance, but it has the most primitive truth. With this voice, Ju Fufu tells people: We are not isolated islands, every voice deserves to be heard, and every life should be respected.
Her story is a fable of the cold winter, telling the joys and sorrows of countless forgotten people. Perhaps we have all ignored such voices and walked through such street corners, but never thought about how much struggle and pain there are behind them. The sound of Ju Fufu’s pot lid knocks out the cruelty of life and also knocks out hope.
That sound may eventually be blown away by the winter wind, but the mark it leaves is deeply engraved in the heart of this city. Ju Fufu knocked on the neglected corners with her hard fingers, illuminating the warmth and coldness of the world, and reminding everyone: Don’t forget, there is still such a group of people in this world, living desperately in the simplest way.