It is not a choice between jumping off a cliff or staying on the ground. It is not even a question about life and death.
No stray strand of doubt crosses his mind as he runs towards the tumbling waters. The roaring waves have been running for thousands of years, all the way from the highest mountains where the scared snow never melts to the deepest ocean where the dragons dwelt. The first drop of water is rumoured to have been a tear from an ancient god's eye; their grief, or joy, manifested the river's course. Thousands of years have passed since they first shed that tear at the stop of the scared mountains. Whatever power of creation the river has been bestowed to is no longer visible.
Fishermen live on the river; they also die in the river.
Their births and deaths never stir up the waves; they just keep running and running, monotonously, without end.
His life is no different. Sneering contemptuously, he lets the ripped robes fall from him, and throws the silk-woven fabrics into the knife-like wind. His unfastens his long hair, his mother's jade hairpin falling heavily onto the rocks beneath his feet. It crumbles, like all the beautiful and fragile things always do. He doesn't even look at the pieces as he strides away. There is no chance to look back.
He has reached the edge of the cliff, looking over the cold waves rushing up onto the rocks along the banks. Somewhere far down the river, someone on a fishing boat is carrying an ancient tune, their voice bleak and distant, almost dreamy to the point to resembling an epiphany.
'Good man, do not cross the river;
Good man, but you have crossed the river!
You fell, good man, and drowned in the river.
What should I do with you?' [1]
He jumps.
_______________
Author's Notes:
[1]From A Song of Konghou. The original poem goes:
公无渡河，公竟渡河!
堕河而死，当奈公何！
Gong wu du he, Gong jing du he!
Duo he er si, Dang nai gong he!
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