That mountain in my memory 印象中的山

幾歲的時候在樓下社區中心上繪畫興趣班，我用綠色粉彩畫了一座山，導師跟我說山是啡色的，叫我把顏色改掉。當時我雖有疑惑，不過還是把綠色的山罩上了一層啡色。下課後回家，我走到窗前往外看最接近家的那座山，想親眼看清楚山的顏色。駐足觀望了許久，山似乎確實帶有啡色，但綠色的面塊又不算少，不過整體看來其實更貼近一種沉著的深藍色。那是我有意識以來第一次主動去看那座山。

大學時期主要居於宿舍，每隔一段時間回家，走到窗前看風景，也會發現景色有所不同。遠方某些區塊總會多建了幾棟立方建築或地盤，遮擋了原先的景色，先是遠處的天水圍，再到中距離的兆康苑，空間感漸漸進迫。新的形狀新的色塊構成了新的風景，而記憶中的上一道窗外風景總是很朦朧，無法清晰記起。

畢業那年從大學宿舍搬遷回家，待業時期日夜坐在窗前望天打掛。直至有天，我看到了山前建了一座大型基建地盤，意味著這區域終於要起樓了。從地盤建設範圍估算，建成的新樓宇應該會完全覆蓋面前這座山，家跟山之間便多出了這道圍牆。

從那天起，基建地盤上的天秤位置越來越高，漸漸侵佔了山底的範圍。我越發不安，發現這些新樓宇蓋得越高，我所能看見這座山的形象就越少，亦即代表著終有一天，樓宇建成後，我將再也無法從家裡望見它。層層疊高的建築棚架是可見的倒數。我開始想要盡力把這座山保留於記憶中。嘗試從窗望去的角度為它拍照拍影片，總之日夜靠在窗前，其實也只是想跟它再相處一會兒。

有天，我偶然想起大學時為了做創作所買的望遠鏡，在抽屜翻了翻，用它往外遠望風景。玩了好一陣子，我再透過望遠鏡看那山。當時我才發現，原來山的頂端那一片隆起的形狀，是一堆小樹木。我無法解釋那一陣熱淚盈眶的感受，因我從未仔細看過那一個小區塊，甚至連那隆起的位置也不太察覺，只認為那是山形狀的一部分。意識到山頂原來存在一群生命，讓我對它的存在更為觸動，也對於即將告別感到更加傷心。

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樓宇建成，萬家燈火成了新的風景。而那些熱血沸騰的感覺都已經過去了。

它漸漸成為了我印象中的山。曾經清晰的輪廓變得模糊，印象中那些熱烈的感受，似乎也逐漸消褪。面對這些曾經熱烈而終會消失的情感，我總是很困擾。強烈的在意，讓我感受到自己和所在意事物的存在，以及兩者仍然連繫的關係。

但在記憶消減以後，就只剩下回憶裡的影像，雖然浮現在腦海，卻有著一段無法觸及的距離。就算你想要再次深陷其中，也沒有辦法了。

寫於 2023 年 4 月

When I was a few years old, I drew a mountain in green pastel at the community centre downstairs. The instructor told me that mountains should be brown, and asked me to change the colour. I was puzzled, but I still covered the green mountain with a layer of brown.

After class, I went home and stood by the window, looking out at the mountain closest to my house, wanting to see with my own eyes what colour it really was. I stared for a long time — the mountain did have a brownish tone, but there were also large patches of green. Taken as a whole, though, it seemed closer to a kind of subdued deep blue. That was the first time in my life I had consciously looked at that mountain.

During my university years, I mostly lived in the dormitory. Each time I returned home, I would look out the window and find the view slightly changed. New cubic buildings or construction sites appeared in the distance, gradually blocking parts of the original scene — first the faraway Tin Shui Wai, then the mid-distance Siu Hong Court. The sense of open space kept shrinking. New forms and new colours built up a new landscape, while the previous one became increasingly blurred in memory, impossible to recall clearly.

After graduation, I moved back home from the dormitory. While unemployed, I often sat by the window, staring blankly into the sky. One day, I noticed a large construction site beginning in front of the mountain — meaning new buildings would soon rise there. Judging from the site’s scale, they would completely cover the mountain. A wall, so to speak, would soon stand between us.

From that day on, the cranes on the site grew taller and taller, slowly invading the base of the mountain. I grew uneasy: the higher the buildings climbed, the less of the mountain I could see. It became clear that once the buildings were finished, I would never again see it from home. The stacking scaffolds became a visible countdown. I started trying everything to keep the mountain alive in memory — taking photos and videos from the window, leaning there day and night, as if just wanting to spend a little more time with it.

One day, I suddenly remembered the telescope I had bought back in university for an art project. I dug it out of a drawer and began to gaze at the distant view. After a while, I turned the telescope toward the mountain — and realised for the first time that the raised shape at its peak was actually a cluster of small trees.

I can’t quite explain the tears that welled up at that moment. I had never really looked closely at that little patch before, barely even noticed its rise — I had always assumed it was just part of the mountain’s shape. To realise that there was a small community of life at its top moved me deeply, and made the thought of losing it all the more painful.

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The construction of the buildings was completed, and the lights of countless homes became the new scenery. Those once-burning feelings have all passed.

It has gradually become a mountain that exists only in my memory. The once-clear outline has turned vague; the intensity of emotion I once felt seems to have quietly faded. I am often troubled by these feelings — those that were once so vivid, yet destined to vanish. That strong sense of attachment had made me aware of both my own existence and the presence of what I cared about — as well as the fragile connection that still bound us together.

When memory fades, only its image remains. Though it still flickers in the mind, it lies at a distance I can no longer touch. Even if I wished to fall back into it again, I could not.

April 2023