A Conversation Across the Xiang River

01 A Misunderstanding at Half Past One in the Morning

December 26th, 1

In Changsha's winter night, the wind carries a sting.

Lying in bed, tossing and turning, I still couldn't fall asleep. My phone was right beside me, and I couldn't resist picking it up to swipe a few times. Opening it led straight to Zhihu, Xiaohongshu, mechanically refreshing...

My mind was a jumble. Thoughts of unfinished deadlines, vague future directions, even just a sense of inexplicable emptiness.

Ah, after entering university, I realized life can sometimes be quite disheveled; that invisible pressure is no less than during senior year of high school. The more anxious I felt, the less I wanted to move, only immersing myself in the addiction of scrolling through my phone, attempting to numb myself a bit.

At that moment, a message from Z popped up at the top of the screen.

She had just finished dance troupe rehearsal and was emerging from the auditorium, braving the cold. At this hour, the streets were already nearly empty; she had to cross Dongfanghong Square to return to her apartment.

I tapped on it—it was a voice message, with the sound of howling wind in the background.

Her voice trembled slightly, clearly chilled to the bone, yet her tone unexpectedly carried a hint of cheerful discovery:

"Hey, am I the first one to see Chairman Mao today? ... Um, is today Chairman Mao's birthday?"

It sounded like she was passing by Dongfanghong Square. Before I could type a reply, a second voice message popped up, adding abruptly:

"The 100-year one."

Lying in my warm bed, I thought this probably couldn't be 100 years. Likely, the late rehearsal had left her frozen and confused.

I replied: "Today is his 132nd birth anniversary."

After sending the message, to confirm my memory was correct, I habitually switched out of WeChat and opened a browser to search.

My fingers typed into the search bar: 1925年 毛泽东.

The moment I pressed Enter, the entry that appeared on the screen stunned me:

1925年，毛泽东在长沙，写下《沁园春·长沙》。

Yes, that's right.

1925年.

Z had mistaken his age, yet inadvertently stumbled upon another, more hidden and astonishing time point.

That autumn 100 years ago, in 1925年, the 32-year-old him stood at Orange Isle's head.

Facing the same Xiang River, gazing at the same crimson mountains, he wrote that poem, "Qinyuanchun · Changsha," which is the first lesson in every high school Chinese textbook.

So, tonight wasn't just his birthday.

In this early morning, the hands of history quietly aligned—this marks exactly the 100th year since "Qinyuanchun · Changsha" came into being.

02 Qinyuanchun · Changsha

I remember when we first entered high school freshman year, the very first piece in the Chinese textbook was this. Back then, young and naive, we sat in the classroom, swaying our heads as we recited:

"See myriad mountains redden, layered forests dye; the whole river emerald clear, a hundred boats vie."

"Pointing at rivers and mountains, stirring words with passion, treating the marquises of ten thousand households as dung."

When I read the final line, "Ask the vast earth, who masters its rise and fall?" that boldness seemed to overflow from the page.

What kind of aura is this? It's the kind of confidence and dominance that, even through a hundred years of paper, can hit you squarely in the face.

For a long time, I was naturally trapped in an "illusion."

I always thought that someone who could write such words must have been at the peak of their life at that moment. They must have been a leader with a single call summoning hundreds, or had just accomplished some earth-shattering feat, riding high on success, surrounded by flowers and applause.

After all, only someone holding a full hand of "trump cards" would have the leisure to appreciate the scenery of deep autumn, right?

Only someone sailing smoothly, standing high and looking down upon all living beings, would have the confidence to point at this magnificent landscape and ask, "Who masters its rise and fall?"

Back then, as I recited it, I secretly looked up in my heart: this is the perspective of a top-tier "real-life achiever," no wonder he was so happy.

But tonight, that accidental search told me, it was nothing like that at all.

03 Age 32, On the Run

The harsh historical fact is: it was an extremely disheveled "escape."

That year, he was 32 years old, already seen as the "number one troublemaker" in the eyes of the warlords.

Because organizing peasant movements in Shaoshan had stirred up too much trouble, threatening the interests of the landlords and wealthy elites, Hunan warlord Zhao Hengti viewed him as a thorn in his side, directly issuing a secret order to have him "executed on the spot" in Changsha.

To survive, he had to leave Changsha immediately, heading for an unknown destination.

Standing at Orange Isle, he was not crushed by the pressure of survival. Instead, he stopped, looked up, and gazed at the sky that was not friendly to him.

Even in high school (well), without warlords chasing me, the pressures of studies and discipline made me grow a lot of resentment.

But in his eyes, this land ruled by warlords, which was about to take his life, showed not a trace of resentment in his words.

He saw not dark blockades, but "mountains all red, forests layered and dyed"—a vitality more intense than fire.

He saw not the cold water blocking his return, but "the river all blue and clear, a hundred boats vying for the current"—a freedom that strives to outdo even in the cold autumn.

When reading the line "dung and dirt to the lords of ten thousand households," I understood even more that the so-called "romance" was just the surface; what lay at the core was a kind of wild arrogance.

You must know, at that time, Zhao Hengti was that "lord of ten thousand households," the ruler holding the power of life and death, searching the entire city for him.

He was not only unafraid; he even looked down on his opponent.

In his eyes, these arrogant warlords were not invincible enemies, but "dung and dirt" by the roadside.

I leave, not because I'm afraid, but because I'm going to gather strength and change this sky.

So, the most moving part is that a young man pushed to the edge of a cliff, in the gap between life and death, still refused to be alienated by reality.

He used the sky full of red leaves to confront cold gun barrels, and with the deepest affection, he scorned the highest authority.

Such composure and boldness are truly admirable.

04 Our Confusion

Turning off the phone screen filled with history from a century ago, the bed curtains plunged back into a dead silence of darkness.

To be honest, as freshmen, we are fortunate.

At this very moment, there are no warlords chasing us, no imminent life-or-death struggles. Logically, we should be happy and content.

So why does this anxiety in the dead of night still surge like a tide, impossible to hold back?

If a hundred years ago, he faced tangible "guns and cannons," then today, we face a boundless "fog."

In high school, pain had a "shape." The college entrance exam was right there, like a mountain—though exhausting, you knew you just had to keep climbing.

But in university, that mountain suddenly vanished, replaced by a sense of powerlessness akin to boiling a frog slowly in warm water.

We also hear the "chill" from the job market, even though we are only freshmen.

We also worry over our naive design assignments.

We also, on some sleepless night struggling to finish drawings, suddenly wonder: Am I really suited for this? Where does the future path lie?

This pressure is intangible; it permeates the air.

Honestly, I often feel quite "pathetic" about my current self.

Not wanting to wake up early, not wanting to face the mountain of deadlines, intermittently ambitious, persistently wanting to slack off. Sometimes walking to class, seeing the hurried crowds around... though free, it is indeed exhausting.

But when I seem to glimpse that figure from 1925, I feel a sense of relief.

"Running away" is not something shameful.

Even someone so towering and upright, in his youth, experienced the desperation of being chased by reality.

Though our levels of suffering are worlds apart—he for survival, we for development.

At this moment, that feeling of confusion—"not knowing where the road ahead lies"—and that sense of powerlessness—"feeling the present is terrible"—transcend a century of time and space, connecting emotionally.

05 Borrowing a Bit of "Spirit" for Ourselves

Why does someone being hunted, with an uncertain future, see not a bleak dead end, but the splendor of "a thousand mountains crimson"?

Why does a youth in the gutter, with his life hanging by a thread, still care about "asking the vast earth, who masters its rise and fall"?

Tonight, I gained a new insight: that dual power hidden behind the boldness—it is an extreme romanticism, and even more, an extreme sense of responsibility.

First, is that spirit of "living beautifully."

What impresses me is that during such a desperate escape, he still retained the ability to appreciate the scenery. He seems to be telling us this way:

No matter how bad reality is, even if I am in a cold autumn, I refuse to be assimilated by the "unfortunate reality."

I too will use an aesthetic eye to look at this land that makes me suffer.

I too must embrace the world's imperfections with the broadest of hearts.

This is a kind of psychological "self-rescue": even when life is a mess, I remain a noble in spirit.

But romance alone is not enough; what supports him standing so upright is also that weighty sense of responsibility.

He can remain composed even while "on the run" because in his heart, personal gains and losses are too light, while the future of this land is too heavy.

When one's heart holds the "vast earth" and "hundreds of millions of compatriots," the personal pursuits, warrants, and hardships before him become insignificant.

This is also why I particularly love that line:

"All creatures under the frosty sky strive for freedom."

Haha, savor these seven words—they're truly unparalleled.

"Frosty sky" is the harsh environment, the cold reality, the warrant hanging over his head.

Yet in such a frosty sky, what he sees is not withering life, but "striving for freedom"—all things growing desperately, breaking free from constraints, living out their own colors.

Perhaps we can try to "borrow" a bit of that spirit from that 32-year-old senior.

Borrow his eyes that "discover beauty," and also borrow his shoulders that "bear burdens."

When we feel about to be crushed by invisible pressures, perhaps we can try, like him, to "steal" a little space for ourselves in spirit.

Quietly tell ourselves: "This difficulty is indeed annoying, but my life shouldn't be defined only by this difficulty."

On one hand, try to live a bit more "beautifully."

Don't let anxiety devour all our passion for life.

When you really can't study anymore, go to Orange Isle to feel the breeze, see the concrete river, love concrete people.

Just like him back then, even in the depths of a valley, don't lose the elegance of looking up at the sky.

On the other hand, try to look a bit farther.

Pull your gaze out of the mess at your feet, look back a little.

Since we are destined to be the youth of this era, since the future will ultimately be handed to us...

Then this assignment, this setback before us, in the long span of life, really isn't that terrifying.

Just as the line goes, "All creatures under the frosty sky strive for freedom."

If even all things in the cold autumn are desperately growing upward for survival and freedom, why should we, in the prime of youth, draw a circle on the ground, trapping ourselves in present anxieties?

After complaining about life, I should also smile.

Love this world with romance, shoulder the burdens of the future with ambition and courage.

This spirit of "being able to recite poetry and admire flowers, yet also strike the water's flow" might be the antidote we should prescribe ourselves in this era.

06 Conclusion

Before putting down my phone, the image of that huge youth statue at Orange Isle head flashed in my mind.

That is exactly how he looked at 32.

His brow brimming with high spirits, yet who truly cared that it was also the most difficult, most disheveled moment of his life.

I think that next time I visit Orange Isle and look at that statue, the feeling will be completely different.

At that moment, what I saw was no longer just a great man placed on a pedestal, nor just a grand landmark for photo opportunities.

Standing there, he himself is a silent answer.

1925 - 2025.

A full century.

Without more words, I just want to say:

Happy 132nd Birthday, Grandpa Mao.

Thank you.

Thank you for the spirit you left behind 100 years ago.

It has passed through the smoke of war, through the years, and even today, it still supports me, urging me to keep moving forward.

End of the full article. This text has been polished by Gemini's literary refinement.

Note: Some sources suggest this poem was created between December 21 and 26, 1926. This article follows the mainstream view (including high school Chinese textbooks), considering the creation time to be early September, autumn of 1925.