Last night at 22:10 and five seconds, exactly 06 seconds I saw a picture. In the picture, a brown child looks around the corner of the earthy wall, the white space of his eyes bloodless. The sky was high and quiet, the clouds moving silently from west to east. Looking up, it looked like a huge cruise ship sailing on the blue sea.

I typed in “Bogota” for destination, which, as you know, is the capital of Colombia.

According to the page of the world map, Fushun in Liaoning province needs about five lengths of span to reach its destination. But 25 hours and 10 minutes of flying distance told me that the time to stand at El Dorado International Airport was not good three days later.

In One Hundred Years of Solitude, Garcia Marquez has Remedios soar up by the end of a bedsheet as she leaves the environment of scarlet beetles and blooming dahlias… Disappeared forever into the upper space. In “Guava Fragrance,” when Mendoza asks Marquez how he came up with the idea of grabbing the bed and flying solo, Marquez confesses that he agonized for weeks about sending her to heaven. Finally one afternoon, the wind whipped the sheets hanging in the yard upward. Why not grab the bed and fly solo? Well, it turns out it can.

Looking at the sheets hanging in front of the French window, the motionless look is like a curtain falling in front of a movie screen. The wind outside the window was not very strong, and the white smoke from the chimneys rose slowly up to meet the pale gray clouds in the far distance. The upward speed is very slow but people can distinguish it is moving, look for a long time I have some doubt whether the clouds were sucked into the chimney.

Why don’t I think people can grab a bed and fly solo? This is my lack of imagination compared to Marquez, but I should also point out that we have neither a yard nor servants. The most important thing is that there are no longer conditions for hanging sheets outdoors, and if the sheets do blow into a neighbor’s house on a windy day, they will never come back.

All of the above are of course my sophistry, in fact, or I am too lazy to go downstairs. But I still have to wonder, why do Marquez’s works appeal to me again and again? What makes him better than me?

Holding El Amor En Los Tiempos Del Colera in my hands, I was hot with every line I read.

A small blue-and-yellow boat emblazoned with En Dios Confio in white letters floats like a spaceship in the clear, green onyx waters of the Caribbean. The tiny ripples in the wind act like a huge heat wave from a flying thruster, draining the air of water molecules.

On the beach are huge palms, one on top of the other, their green leaves changing colour with distance from light to dark. The plant-woven roof was slowly yellowed by the sun, changing color like all the subjects of the earth who had declared their submission, gradually matching their ruler in appearance.

The sunset at 6:03 in Santa Marta has sunk into the calmest sea. It is unwilling to release a deep orange light at the last moment, which makes the tourists on the beach scream, and the sound of mobile phone shutter one after another captures the most beautiful moment.

Years later, when I picked up my phone and flipped through photos of the 6:03 sunset in Santa Marta, it was as if the laughter was instantly activated. Walking hand in hand with our loved ones on the softest part of the sand on the beach, the waves seem to wash over our instep. Will the cool bursts of light let us in the hot, cicadas in the French window together to pick up a beautiful memory?

I’m a football fan, I like Brazil, I like Ronaldinho. I like Argentina. I like Messi. But I’ve never thought of going there. But now? I desperately wanted to go into Dr Urbino’s house and see the mango tree that had killed him. I would stand by the tree and examine the trunk decades later for signs of bark that had been peeled off when the ladder slipped.

I want to sit next to Florentino Ariza and hear how he plays his intoxicating waltz of love in the graveyard. The note travels with the wind, where it belongs.

I would rather dive into the boundless Caribbean Sea alone in a rubber boat on a sunny, cloudless morning to explore the infinite treasures of the last century for my beloved girl.

Mysterious Colombia, mysterious Bogota, mysterious Caribbean… I’m fascinated by all this. Even when Marquez wrote about the square tapestries on the walls of Fermina’s home, it made me want to touch the warm texture…

A few years ago, reading Proust’s In Search of Lost Time, I felt the same loneliness again. I also love France, after all, there is Victor Hugo’s Notre Dame de Paris, Dumas’s Bastille prison. But instead of reading Marquez, suppose one day I stood beneath the vaulted dome of Notre Dame Cathedral and looked out over the medieval figures on either side of the square. I think I’ll be excited, even elated.

But watching the lonely knight on Santa Marta Beach lean on his sword and stare into the distance, the backlit shot looks distant and deep. A thousand years of lonely let the moment become eternal. This is the theme of the centuries, this is the theme of Marquez.

The noise around him grew louder and louder. Calling, talking, joking… People seem to speak loudly just to be louder than others. No sculpture, no painting, no castle-like architecture. People were struggling to make a living, and vendors and customers in the market were haggling for a dollar or fifty cents. In the mall, couples shyly keep their distance, and men and women in love walk tightly intertwined.

I can neither read loneliness, nor see love.

At this time the sun seems to have changed into another look, it is not friendly to hide in the thick clouds do not want to come out, the sun is like being put into the gray bag. I can’t see any grudging, only that it wants to leave this dirty section quickly, without leaving a trace.

I don’t think I’ll ever write anything like Marquez in my life, but I’ll spend my life reading El Amor En Los Tiempos Del Colera. For nothing but the moment when, years from now, you walk out of El Dorado International Airport. The warm, humid air of the tropics enveloped me, just as Garcia Marquez had felt when he sat in his courtyard decades ago.

Years later, the sun hung high, just like that afternoon…

I wouldn’t have noticed, standing on a Caribbean beach in patterned shorts, that a green parrot hiding among the palm leaves was giving me the cold shoulder.