Ju Fufu stood there, the popcorn pot in her hand was like a dusty old object, revealing the grinding of years and the secret temperature of her heart. The sound of her knocking on the pot lid sounded gently, as delicate as some unspeakable emotions, rippling in the air. The first three hammers were a rapid and complex rhythm, like those years that passed by quickly, both anxious and helpless. The fourth hammer slowed down, becoming hesitant and heavy, like a twilight person, looking back at time, but unable to retain it.
At that moment, Ju Fufu’s figure seemed to be solidified, and her movements were full of struggles and sighs. She spun, dodged, and danced with the pot, not only to resist the offensive from the outside world, but more to talk to her own fear. The hot flames in the pot reflected the loneliness and stubbornness in her eyes. When the flames jumped, popcorn exploded and splashed, like the fleeting joy in life, but full of sad fragility.
The layers of wounds on her body silently told the pain of the past. Those scars were not only physical injuries, but also traces of emotional rupture. Life gave her not only the scorching flames, but also the ruthless cold wind. She chose to continue standing and tapping because she knew that stopping tapping meant surrender, which was the ending she was most reluctant to face.
And her support action was like a lamp in the middle of the night, warm but not dazzling. Ju Fufu not only fights for herself, but also protects those souls who are also in trouble. Her quick assistance is the glimmer of light in the world, the weak but real kindness in life. The spatula in her hand is not only a defensive tool, but also a medium for her to whisper with the world. She taps life and fate with it.
When she releases the finishing move, the flame burns in the pot, and the light is so scorching that it almost burns her hands. At the moment when the popcorn splashed, time seemed to freeze, and all the anger, disappointment, and expectations converged into an indescribable fiery feast. That was her last cry, a deep confession of the impermanence of life. What was left after the flames were the embers that gradually extinguished, just like those youth and dreams that were once brilliant but will eventually pass away.
After the battle, Ju Fufu gradually disappeared in the twilight, and only the popcorn pot still retained its temperature. Her story has no gorgeous words, no ups and downs, only a faint, almost silent persistence. She showed us that everyone’s life is like this pot, fragile and tough in the firelight, and looking for their own place in the explosion.
And what about us? In the long knock of life, how many times have we overexerted like her, and how many times have we heard the cry of “opening the pot” from deep in our hearts? The aroma of popcorn drifted away, with a hint of bitterness and warmth, just like the loneliness and expectations in each of our hearts. Ju Fu Fu and her popcorn pot are perhaps the most true portrayal of us – persisting in absurdity and blooming in impermanence.