The most real feeling of Tianshan's trip is small. When the car goes to the foot of the mountain, Tianshan is pressed in silence. The mountain is not green in the picture, but the iron-gray rock ridges protruding, and the snow is like a cold knife in it. People stood below, looking up at the top, only felt that they were a dust that had been accidentally blown here. As they climbed, their breath was gradually diluted into white mist by the thin air, and their feet were heavy as a stone. Around them were silent stones and eagles hovering in the distance, who did not care about my arrival or departure. Here, the hustle and bustle of human society, the ego and the name of the merit, are blown in the mountain wind. I am just moving, following the oldest survival instinct: upward, forward. And to the mountainside, I suddenly see the first line of snow into a trickle, sewing down the stone. This water will be brought into the oasis, nourishing grapes and wheat fields, and nourishing song and dance and love. At this moment we have realized that the grandeur of Tianshan is not to rebuke my smallness, but to incorporate smallness into a broader order with its ancient majesty. My smallness, like the snow water, although only a drop, is also part of the grand narrative. Going down the mountain, Tianshan is still silent. It does not remember me, but I take away the truth it has given meadmit the smallness, and see the vastness of the world behind.