They say Guilin's landscapes are the best in the world, and while this is certainly true, it's also not entirely true. The mountains here are no ordinary mountains, and the waters are no ordinary waters. Their arrangement is strangely treacherous, like chess pieces carelessly cast by an ancient god, or like a nightmare lingering after the awakening of a cosmic dream.
The mountains here are a marvel of stalagmites bursting from the earth. Solitary peaks rise steeply, like spears or swords, piercing the azure sky. From a distance, they appear as indigo silhouettes, floating above the mist, seemingly unearthly. Up close, the mountains are porous, carved into bizarre shapes by wind and rain, resembling the jaws of a giant beast, gaping to devour clouds and birds. The crisscrossing veins of the rocks hold a code left by ancient times, a code that mortals cannot decipher. These mountains are neither continuous nor tamed, each standing alone, towering over the ordinary world, looking down coldly upon it. As the sun shifts, the mountain shadows shift, as if alive, quietly transforming in a way that's almost dizzying.
The water of the Li River is almost eerie in its clarity. Not a gentle, serene clarity, but a crystalline, unreserved nakedness. Pebbles on the bottom, swaying water plants, fleeting fish—all are clearly visible, every detail distinct. The water, so eager to reveal everything, loses its authenticity, becoming an overly meticulous painting. Sailing on it, a boat feels less like breaking through the blue waves than gliding across a vast expanse of flowing glass. The water reflects the mountain shadows, re-imagining those jagged, bizarre outlines, creating a world beneath the surface, a trance-like interplay of reality and illusion. The occasional fishing boat, with dark cormorants perched on top, silent as sculptures, adds to the otherworldly loneliness.
As for the caves, they are the deepest recesses of this nightmare landscape. Stepping inside, the sweltering heat dissipates, leaving only a bone-chilling chill. Stalactites hang from the ceiling, stalagmites rise from the ground. Millions of years of water dripping through the rocks have shaped this dense, subterranean forest. Illuminated by colorful lights, the colors appear as red as congealed blood, green as ghostly fire, and the grotesque light sculpts the forces of nature into artificial delirium. The guide points out rocks shaped like immortals, Buddhas, and auspicious beasts, assigning them auspicious names, yet they feel like the silent roar condensed in the lungs of the earth, the ferocious gestures frozen in time itself. The gurgling underground river within the cave, its sound amplified in the vastness, like a whisper, endlessly revealing the untold secrets of the mountains and rivers above.
Tourists flock in, and the sound of shutter clicks echoes, as if to carve out this wondrous landscape and seal it within a tiny electronic cage. Their faces brimmed with contentment, soothed by the scenery. The beauty of this landscape was too stark, too detached from reality, like a vast, unintentional temptation, a gentle, yet cold trap. It didn't nourish, it awe; it didn't invite closeness, only admiration from afar, never to be touched.
As they departed, they gazed back at the winding mountains and waters, silent in the gathering twilight, still preserving their timeless, inhuman grace. It suddenly dawned on them: Guilin's landscape wasn't created to please mere mortals. It was a vast dream, left behind by the mystical world, from which we never fully awaken, a vision not of this world, revealed by nature's occasional absence of consciousness. To call it "the best in the world" is but an ant's presumptuous speculation about the divine work of a giant, using its own meager words to embody an inconceivable, eternal nightmare.
