11/08~11/10, I was in Tashkurgan. Tashkurgan is a small, lovely, Tajiki town.
Travelers come here for the Tajiki people who have totally different faces, or for a rest on their way to the border.
It had great history, but almost nothing left except a few rocks on the hill, gazing the river valley quietly, seem to try to remind people its past.
It’s difficult to image the glory of this city 2000 years ago.
It’s a ruin, and is also almost forgotten by present Tajiki inhabitants.
Maybe finally, one day, when the last person who knows it dies, its last only story will be buried, too.
Ruins always manifest this kind of tragedy: everything will disappear finally.
Like fragments of memory, sometimes appears in your dream, but gone after waking up, only left vague images, hide beyond subconscious, nobody else ever knows about it, nobody sense it, except yourself, come out your unreasonable happiness or sadness, triggered by some ordinary incidents, and then what you only know is, you had ever be delight or hurt by something…...
It’s all about memory……
It’s all about disappearing memory.
Ruin is a disappearing memory.