The morning of the drizzle, do not want to go out, and have no intention of going to bed, only curled up in a corner of the house, take a book and flip, there is one with no one. I'm not sure if I'm going to be able to do that, but I'm going to be able to do it. There's not much to see upstairs, only the same pigeonholes as mine. The pigeonholes on the other side of the street are also filled with lonely people like me. Maybe they're not lonely at all, maybe every family in every house upstairs is happier than I am. They can watch TV, spin to music on the floor, do housework, go out and meet with friends, square dance and play Tai Chi. And I don't do any of that. I don't do it not because I look down on it. I don't look down on people who do these things. I won't do is I really won't do, my coordination is very poor, standing in the do neatly inside the crowd, I undoubtedly become an anomaly, become the focus of other people's attention, become other people don't want to see and have to put their eyes on you focus, in the public occasions, I'm the most unwilling to show up, not to mention become a cohesion of the focus of everyone's eyes; I don't have any arbitrary friends who speak freely; at home just me and him, the housework even more has to be done. I don't like to spin to music, I just curl up in a corner and flip through a book. The music flowing is always the same guzheng, guzheng elegant but very sad, with the sad tune, my thoughts fly very far, far to the feeling that can not be recovered, far to those buried deep in the memory of the past people and things once again surfaced.
The cheesy ringtone of the cell phone is flurrying in the room. A friend from another city said he was coming over. The friend lives in that city and I live in this city neighboring, between the two cities is not far but also not close. Although it is neighboring, and the same in a straight road, but for that straight road connotation of the excavation is very different. Friends living in that city focus on the historical sense of gravity, while my small town ignored history. Because it ignores history, my city is like a young man who stumbles forward with an immature, ill-considered recklessness. Regardless of which city, as long as the history of this heavy coat, and then use the text as clothing filler, then the city will attract people's attention, will be like a barren barren flashes a bright star.
When I received the phone call from my friend, the vision that curls up with the body as much as the body is all of a sudden pure, and also flurries in the space that I am familiar with. Wouldn't it be better to sow my gaze in the not-so-damp earth in this humid world?
Walk out of the city along the lush green wheat field on the ring road. The first time I saw this, I was in the middle of the night, and I was in the middle of the night. The flower of the acacia tree has not yet penetrated the open, sporadically dotted, a clump of green and white swaying between the green leaves. The leaves are so green that the green and white flowers look dazzling. The tree's roots are embedded in the fertile soil, linking and stitching the two seasons of spring and summer into the joyful chirping of birds. Fertile land and tree roots are linked by blood, bathed in drizzle, sitting and watching another season of prosperity in the years.
No destination, let the car go. I just hold the steering wheel, by the car to choose the road, more is the road pulling the car to go. In my friend's own words: with the car to go. Often in a certain place, the body is placed, but also the heart is placed, so long time to place, so that the bright red heart is no longer bright red, become dull, dull to moldy hair. Out of their own city, with the moldy hairy heart out of the familiar to sniff out every grain of air in the air molecular structure of the place, so that other, unfamiliar places fresh wind blowing, perhaps, can blow clean that above the mold.
A slightly cool wind, sporadic rain. The early summer sky is not blue, but also makes people feel very cozy. I've been walking for a while now, and the melancholy in my friend's eyes hasn't dissipated. Perhaps it is only after really walking out that I feel that my heart has not been completely brought out, or I have simply left my heart at home. Shrouded in the heart of the layer of mold is actually on their own life of that small town of attachment. People, there is no choice, fate has been destined to this life, no matter how to look forward to their own sky blue eternity, but the heart always can not go out of that perhaps still dusty city. As the roadside this tree, although the feet of this land is a bit barren, it is still the roots y rooted in the soil, a tie, with the whole life embracing this piece of land, and the leaves on the tree will be carefree to show the cycle of night and day.
The sunlight in the clouds tries its best to shed its warmth on the earth. If the clouds are lifted at this time, the sun must be so brilliant that the heroes who despise the world will lower their noble heads. The wind is over, not cold but warm, sporadic rain chasing the footsteps of the wind, rarely fall on the land, intends to land, and with the wind ran away. The car is very slow, slow to the roadside air can stay at will, slow to the breeze are a bit pressed, slow to the roadside grass clearly show their texture. The light wind is an open umbrella, the road went past, behind the rain feet left behind, a trace of wet if not extended.
Walking to a certain place, I smelled a familiar wind, that wind with the laughter of childhood. My heart was spread by a soft sentiment. Explored the window to look out, the eyes touched only strange, so where did this familiar wind come from? Could it be in memory? I know which road my friend has embarked on, and I also know that this road is flat and wide, and it is the road that people and my heart yearn for. But I couldn't help but feel a slight loss in my heart. This loss is not because of this flat and wide road, is from my childhood has gone far.
At that time, I was weak, then not only I was weak, even the wind carrying the laughter is also that weak. Those laughter, those with such laughter shadow, can not withstand the erosion of time and hunchbacked into a difficult murmur. Remember those rainy dusk? Remember the sunny mornings? Remember the papier-maché windows? Do you remember the iron bell that was broken several times, but still sounded loud and clear? Do you remember the laughter that poured out of the classroom like a tidal wave with the sound of that bell? Remember those blurred and disappeared back?
The car is still moving slowly, almost as slow as the old oxen pulling the old oxcart that used to be in the village, and what is even more immobile is my mind, which has been moving forward for several decades, and then returned to retrace the steps of childhood thoughts. In front of the time fence that I can not escape, I can only imagine that the year that has a thin shoulder, has a spring-like clear eyes of the little girl, she is still standing in the decades ago that is called the Malian River?
With thoughts of decades forward and decades back, I looked at my friend with a pair of half-smiled eyes. He was still holding the steering wheel as calmly as ever, occasionally taking a drag on his cigarette, billowing smoke filling his eyes. I don't know what he was thinking, maybe nothing, just squinting and breathing y of the air rushing in through the half-open window. He, of all people, couldn't have smelled the stale odor encased in the air. Perhaps he thought of more, he thought of the roadside and then down, encountered the river, and then along the river downstream, to a certain place, there will be a small town blocking the progress of the footsteps of his wife and son, brothers and sisters, parents and elders living in that small town? That was the habitat of his spirit. His eyes are far-reaching, like a bottomless pool, I did not ask him, just let his thoughts drift, let him leave a deep as a philosopher-like silhouette.
I know, we secular people, there are a lot of ties in the heart, a responsible person, he will not do unattached. Stay in a certain place for a long time, want to go out, but really go out, but put the heart in that place called home. Originally wanted to let the fresh wind blow clean the hairy heart, did not expect the wind out of town but to that hairy heart to catch another layer of frost, this layer of frost is called longing. We all can't get rid of the destiny, each of us can't fly out of the palm of the thoughts.
There is grass on the side of the road, and there is a little bud on the grass, and that bud will be a bouquet of flowers in the future. My eyes drifted out the window once more, and the grass on the roadside squeezed into my eyes impatiently. The flower should be yellow, because the bud oozes a little yellow-green. The grass is humble, climbing on the ground, buried under a clump of lush green, but it grows, and as long as it grows it may flower; as long as it fantasizes, there is hope for seed; and as long as there is love, people's footsteps can't possibly go too far.
The wind went far away. The string of thin laughter in the wind has gone far away. Lost can not be made up, we can only smooth out the years of traces alone, in this less traveled . Roadside to pick up the raindrops such as lamps, their footprints painted into a wonderful manor, waiting for the green shoots of embellishment.
The wilderness bares the complexity and variability of this world without boundaries. Along the way all the way trees and seedlings superimposed, all the way to the big collection of colors. New life and decay, destruction and construction are connected, nurturing and death. We are a little stunned to sit down and look at the tree full of early summer.
Many trees, leaves, and drifting voices crowded into reality, leaf veins spreading out in all directions, roots expanding all over the place, caring for their barren but not barren days. In the light wind, the leaves stretch, there is no sun in the sky, but I can feel the warmth of the sun. One or two small butterflies flapped their wings, swiftly livening up the stagnant air, swiftly embellishing the green leaves, swiftly ruffling the flowers, swiftly kissing the branches. The sporadic rain has a sound, rustling, drops where, where it is like being drenched in love, trembling out of the bunch of hemp.
Getting out of the car, standing on the bridge, the bridge over the Malian River has cracked the three-finger wide seam. This bridge has a history of more than thirty years, the pedestrians from the north to the south of the vehicle stepped on it, now flowing for thousands of years of the Malian River does not see the old, but the bridge has aged a lot. When I was a child living in the bridge, playing under the bridge, then only feel the bridge is majestic, and young and vigorous. Now standing on the bridge, still feel majestic, but this majestic more what, and less what. Standing under the bridge and staring for a long time, only to realize that it is a lot less vibrant, more of an old. And this old age, not the passage of years, is unbearable, a bit of lingering, but still try to hold up that a strong, old heartbreaking.
The bridge is old. The bridge will be old? The bridge will be old. That once strolled under the bridge those beautiful shadows? Those shadows that chased the cuckoo's call? The shadow that kneeled in the triangle of Malian River and Line River Basin to plant watermelons and was sunburned to peel off layer after layer of skin with a black and red face? The shadows of those who wandered around the sunflower fields of others with envy in their eyes? Where did all those shadows go? Now I am back, I am one of them, I am a person only single shadow, my eyes are not clear, filled with worldly dust, my hair is no longer black, stained with the frost of the years, my body is no longer Tingting, horizontal development of this succulent image today, my feet are no longer light, each step dragged with the heaviness of the years.
The rocks on the river had our young footprints, walking on it, I can not capture the young, only feel sleepy and powerless, I eagerly look up to the bridge, while the bridge is indifferent to measure me. Yes, I don't have the dinky shadow of that year; what appears before the bridge's eyes is this bloated, vulgar figure. The bridge would not recognize me.
I stared, eagerly looking up. I finally could not bear this abandoned indifference. I can only lower my head, in vain, I wipe out that eagerness in my eyes. That eagerness is like a songstress towards the twilight of the singer, standing on the empty stage, once the splendor is not there, once the brightness is not there, once the eye is not there, once the delicate figure is not there, there is only time to beat out the marks, there is only the age left on the body of the loose and flabby. Now standing in the once belonged to their own stage, clearly marked, even if the price of the lowest, eagerly looking forward to the passing pedestrians to listen to her show of voice, who do not know ushered in is a mocking gaze. Now facing the bridge, I feel like being stripped naked. Its cold, mocking gaze made me feel a little ashamed of myself. A sudden shiver soaked through me. I realized that I had not only lost my youth, but also my hope, and I had lost my right to live. The years had left me little time to survive.
I don't dare to look up anymore, I can only humbly bend down, and my feet don't dare to step on the layers of rock, I can only humbly walk on tiptoe. The rock layer after thousands of years of wind erosion and sunshine, still layer after layer towering in the Malian River. And I have been in just a few decades has been completely different, I still have what qualifications to walk on the rocks again justifiably?
Friends hands wrapped around his chest, quietly standing by the Malian River, the tall figure against the silent flow of sparkling Malian River, seems to be with the heart and Malian River to the language. A long time before he said, the upper reaches of this river is much wider than our place. He also said that he would soon be collecting information on the governance of the Malian River and would be busy for a while.
I splashed some cold water, what is the use of collecting those?
He was a bit surprised, can be left for posterity ah
deep thought, but also really for posterity to organize information. The geese have left their voices, and the people have left their names. Many people are just ordinary people, how many of them can be left in the history books? But people have to leave a mark. What friends do is to pick up the marks of people walking past, so that history will be passed on.
Along the path buried in the grass hidden up, I walked so weak. My legs have to rest for a long time every step, as if my legs are entangled with decades of light inside the ties. I don't know if it's the road that's too weak, or if it's me. My friend looked back at me and asked: do you need me to pull you a hand? I shook my head, no. I have to walk on my own, I have to step on the light footprints of my childhood.
Only bending down, can find those brilliant little flowers in the grass, can see the grass roots wriggling between the small life. Slender small flowers gently swaying with a land of wind flow, let the hearts of people love; hidden in the grass roots between the life wriggling with a land of weakness, let the hearts of people love. Who does not need the love of sunshine and rain? Who does not pray for the natural wind to flow into their own living space? This afternoon of sunshine and rain stars, the air is so pure that it glides along the Malian River without any impurities. And all the roots of the vegetation, in the Malian River in the deep and deep.
I would like to listen to the chorus of life between the crevices, I would like to wash the dust of the soul in the Malian River, which has flowed for thousands of years; I would like to play the willow flute that attracts people's ears; I would like to sleep on the clean green stone slabs by the Malian River, and then dream a long dream; and I would like to become a piece of rock by the Malian River, which has been eroded for thousands of years.
Standing on the bridge again, a dizzy spell is I had to hold on to the cold railing. I quietly through the gaps in the bank of poplar trees, see how the clouds and the sun read the river, see the riverbank mud how the insects and insects survive and reproduce, see how the moss and how to ants rows of toes occupy the river can not be wet puddle, or, look at the roots of the rock how the river conquered the rock chapped the will of the scouring.
The car traveled slowly along the green raging mountain road. Or the road, or the tree, the sign, the newly repaired steps, the steps of a few farmers in the vicissitudes of picking up the steps. On both sides of the steps is the newly repaired interface, above the shoots have been the first growth. Imagine again in my mind full, not long, this new highway will have the shadow of the tree, the shadow of the bird, the shadow of the clouds, then such a road, such green leaves between the birdsong, there will be the shadow of the heart, the shadow of the emotions. Shadows of travelers, then the veins of the trees begin to memorize these shadows, and the long winds begin to collect these imprints left behind, right?
Because of his work, my friend has grown a pair of searching eyes. He could see a narrow, deserted path at the edge of a spacious, flat area. He said something like, it's an old road. I retorted, it's not an old road, it's the old road that used to go up the mountain. He squinted at me and asked with a smile, Is the old road not an ancient road?
I was speechless. That road is the road I walked when I was a child, I thought I was not ancient, then I walked the road would not be an ancient road. But then again, this road is not only my generation walked, my last generation, the previous generation, the previous generation, living in the Malian River generations of people are along this path out of the Malian River, perhaps in the beginning, this mountain is not a road at all, walking more people, footprints become a road. I do not agree that it is an ancient road, perhaps this road is to let people walk, did not appear what moving story it, or is not which is too famous characters from this road? What about hundreds of years from now? Hundreds of years later, will someone count the lines of history, with a pair of friends like a pair of searching eyes to pick up the traces of these walks? At that time, will this road really become an ancient road? Who will be the characters on this road that people must find? Will it be us? Thinking this way, I looked back at the equally silent man holding the steering wheel with one hand and a cigarette with the other. The journey had been characterized by very little talk about anything other than his devout writing and the work he was doing. I admired my friend's devotion to words and his work. There aren't many people like that nowadays, especially at his age.
It's so nice to open the window and face everything. The breeze brushes through your fingertips, from the tip of the mountain where weeds and trees coexist. I think this cool wind, but also must be from the friend that wanders in the text of the heart of the field whisked, I know that each into the text of the people, are tormented by the text of the near madness, are destroyed by the text of the broken, I know that the text is a devil with a beautiful face, it will make all the people close to it steadfastly to become its believers, more like ...... The first thing I'd like to do is to get the word out of my mouth and get it out of my mouth.
I have been in the text dizzy for decades, and now I can not touch the true meaning of the text. I don't want my friend to become such a person, and I hope that the cool wind can brush away the fine dust left in his heart by the text. I hope my friend is like this walking wind, using light language to write flower-like dreams on the leaf veins of time. I hope that my friend is a person who listens to life - shaking off the dust, shaking off the rain, shaking off the melancholy, shaking off the bondage, and feeling the mood of the breeze along the way with a pure heart.