The wind on the street, with its biting chill, made people unable to open their eyes and chilled their hearts. Ju Fufu stood there, holding the pot lid in his hand, repeatedly knocking on the rusty iron pot. The sound of the pot lid colliding with the bottom of the pot echoed in the empty streets, crisp and monotonous. The popcorn burst in the pot, steaming, but it could not warm the indifferent people around.
Her voice is the most true portrayal of a corner of this city. That sound, seemingly insignificant, reveals the tenacity and helplessness of life. She is not an existence valued by the world. Pedestrians walked past her with indifferent eyes and hurried steps, as if she was just a landscape forgotten by society.
The sound of Ju Fufu’s popcorn pot lid is not just a livelihood tool for a hawker, but more like a footnote of an era. It tells the struggle and resistance of marginalized people in this prosperous society. What she knocked out was not just popcorn, but also an accusation of life and a cry against reality.
In this cold winter day, when the popcorn pot lid sounded, it seemed to unveil the thick veil of indifference in people’s hearts. People live their own lives, and the wheels of society roll over their figures, but no one stops to care about the warmth and coldness of the human feelings in the sound of the broken pot. The existence of Ju Fufu is a microcosm of the lack of human touch in society.
Her hands were frozen purple, and her cheeks were red from the cold wind, but she never stopped knocking the pot lid. She knew that only this crisp sound allowed her to exist in the vast sea of people. The popcorn she sold was only a few cents, but it carried her expectation of survival and her persistence in dignity.
Behind the prosperity of this city, there is a group of silent strugglers. Ju Fufu is one of them. She used the sound of the pot lid to nail herself firmly to the bottom of society, unwilling to be completely submerged. Her life has no poetry, no beautiful dreams, only the cold and the rhythm of knocking day after day.
The sound of pot lids and the crackling of popcorn are like a silent narrative, telling the simplest survival story in the world. Ju Fufu is not a hero, she is just a fragment of life, a mirror of the cruel reality of this society. Her persistence is a proof of the unyielding life and a faint hope for the future.
The cruelty of society is the heaviest note in the sound of pot lids. People are in a hurry, as if they can be safe as long as they forget the cries of the bottom. But Ju Fufu’s pot lid sound does not allow people to forget. It knocks on the scars of society and knocks out the indifferent truth.
This sound, like a sharp blade, pierces the hypocritical prosperity of the city and exposes the poverty and helplessness hidden under the bright coat. Ju Fufu uses her simple tools to knock out the desire for fairness and dignity, and the struggle and hope for life itself.
The sound of her pot lid was the most tenacious echo in the cold wind of that winter, and the most unwilling cry in this indifferent society. She had no gorgeous words, no heroic oaths, only an old pot and the heavy knocking sound, carrying the simplest weight of life.
Perhaps this sound will eventually be drowned by the wind and snow and forgotten by people, but behind it are countless ordinary people like Ju Fufu, who use their fragile but firm bodies to resist the cruelty of fate and support the foundation of this society. Their voices are small, but they cannot be ignored, because they are the foundation of life and the last light of human nature.