Beg. . . . . China Weekly's Left-handed Reflection and Right-handed Articles

Left hand reflection, right hand years (1)

A child looking up at the sky

I am a child who will look up at the sky when I am lonely, looking at the big sun, looking at the big moon, looking at my neck ache, and looking at tears. It's true. Good boys don't lie. What I write looks like an illusion that opens in the water, and they are also real.

music

I have always been a person who loves music. I have always loved music. The persistence in my bones is often unreasonable to others.

On sunny nights, I always play a folk song in the CD player. I have always liked the sound of dulcimer and the shallow singing of a poetess full of worries. The cherry is red, the banana is green, and the rain hits the windowsill. And I am surrounded by the warmth of the sofa. In the low-key and flying of Nestle Coffee, I clearly know that the wind outside the window is extremely cool, and the white clouds are set with moonlight-like silver edges, and everything is perfect. It will be sunny tomorrow, and I can be unscrupulous.

However, I am in a bad mood most nights. Loneliness. Desolate. There is still a little fear. At this time, I will choose Zhang Chu or Dou Wei.

I always sit on the blue and white hair in the corner of the living room with a resisting attitude, like a lonely but stubborn child. A full face of resistance and anger, but with bright eyes listening to Zhang Chu singing "God bless the full" and Dou Wei humming without words. I am a person who doesn't eat on time, so God doesn't bless me. I often have a stomachache, which makes me cry. On the opposite side of my beloved blue-and-white sofa is a white wall, a large piece of white, which is as empty as Mount Tai. I tried to hang some of my favorite oil paintings on it, but in the end I took them all down. Blank, or blank. That white wall reminds me of the hole in Anne's palm and the unknown desolation in my heart. It's all warm and painful And once the music starts, I will touch the bright colors on the wall, which are concave and convex.

Zhang Chu always reminds people of the sultry long streets in the hot sun. Crowds of idle people in slippers are walking on the hot ground with glassy eyes, like meek and stupid sheep. However, a child wearing black trousers stood on the asphalt-soaked black road and announced with bright eyes that he had a cold. A crack appeared in the cold bone, like a fragile crystal cup. The child's name is Zhang Chu, and he says lonely people are shameful. He said ants are good.

And Dou Wei always gives people a taste of late spring and early summer. Every time I hear his voice, I can keenly feel a lot of water molecules suspended in the air, which become tears when attached to my eyelashes. Dou Wei's voice always stirs up a black wind through the hall. In the wind, the big black blooms alone, and the burning brilliance burns my light gray pupils. Dou Wei always gives me a feeling of shrinking. Return it and then return it. It was not until he retreated to a dark corner that he could rely on that he was willing to let his voice flow like a spring. Children are usually resistant. I don't know if Dou Wei is a child, but I am a child. I always sit in the corner of the library, creating and waiting for my little happiness in that corner. Whether my blood is boiling or my body is stiff. In short, I don't want anyone near me.

Music is really a good painkiller. To me, it is like a cave, where a stray and often injured beast can hide and I can lick my wounds.

My friend said that she could fly freely in music, flying all the way over the sun, moon, Cangshan, Lishui, rolling rivers and black peaks in the spring and autumn, until the dark clouds cleared and the sun shone.

I don't think I have that freedom. I can only curl up tighter in music. I fell asleep until I opened my eyes and all my troubles disappeared.

Then I'll be happy and won't cry alone in the dark.

Those songs are like the sky, dreams are like clouds, electricity is like tears, flowers are like the wind, andante of Shaanxi Opera/my black elegy.

film

Wong Kar-wai.

When I wrote these three words, my fingertips hurt slightly but severely.

He is a person who is good at creating hallucinations, and I am a person who is good at indulging in hallucinations. Just as he is a good actor, I am a die-hard fan. Wong Kar-wai kissed too many fates and left too many people alone. Happy characters are always sad at the end of the play, and sad characters are either crazy or dead at the end of the play. Loneliness is Wong Kar-wai's killer, and loss is his night clothes.

Those lively winds, those lonely people. Takeshi Kaneshiro, who kept eating the expired canned pineapple, kept waiting for the miracle, Faye Wong, whose eyes were empty and his gestures were lonely, Leslie Cheung, who kept repeating the Gregorian calendar, Brigitte Lin, who was dancing his sword against the reflection in the water, and Tony Leung Chiu Wai, who finally sealed all his secrets with mud, was dressed in a coquettish cheongsam under a trance-like street lamp and lonely as Maggie Cheung, who refused to heal a wound, always came into my dream like an iron horse glacier every night. Past lives Things are different. The stars move around. Things have changed the dream of a thousand years. Never wake up.

Wong Kar-wai creates hallucinations and black wounds. Every wound is like a black Datura, enchanting and painful, with endless black fragrance.

Calculate my horoscope and look at my palm print. I think I'm finished.

A person always subconsciously approaches some people who are similar to himself. I remember someone saying. So I know that the blood flowing in my body is so lonely. Ice blue blood is the loneliest.

I always have an amazing touch on the characters in some non-mainstream movies, just like a small impact on mimosa is thunderous. I have seen many unknown movies, most of which I selected from thousands of movies.

And the people in those movies are always lonely. I clearly remember a man standing in front of the dimly lit French window tearing a calendar, page by page, clinging to madness until he finally went crazy and jumped from the eighteenth floor. When he was flying in the sky, big colorful clouds flashed in the sky. I still remember a woman who bought herself a bunch of roses every night and threw them away the next morning without looking until someone finally gave her a bunch of roses. The next morning, when she saw the rose withered and could do nothing, she shed tears all over the floor.

There is also a love story in Tokyo, which I have always regarded as an extension film. Whenever the theme song of "Tokyo Love Story" rings, there will always be a bright and painful smile in front of my eyes, and that smile will always pull my soul out of my body in an instant, and then pull my body out of this world in an instant. Every time I look at it, my heart tightens. When I see a handkerchief with the words "Nagao Kanji" fluttering in the wind tied to the railing of an unmanned station, when I see Chi Ming Li want to squat down on the train and cry like a child, my eyes will feel dim.

Seeing your figure squatting on the football field, I also kicked the ball. After healing, I gently call your name. Did you get a look at him? After Wan Zhi, I carved "Bell Ring" on the pillars of the school, which was written by you at graduation time 12 years ago. You should have been a radish head then, right? I really hope the engraved name can fill the blank memory between you and me. I don't know if my name can stay here for ten or twenty years, just like your name. Even if it may be short-lived, as long as our names can be side by side, that is enough.

Who sings the black elegy/who looks at the white village/my mercury/my fireworks/and my black hillside covered with irises/lively wind/lonely people/clear soul burning brightly/you are me/gentle scars that refuse to heal.

Reading late at night is flying against the wind, I always think so. Reading seems to be an extremely important state in my life. When the black wind passes under my wings, I always feel inexplicable excitement.

All the books I read are extreme, either as quiet as JOE and Enya, or as Leng Yan as Su Tong and Annie Baby. Maybe I was born an extreme person.

I remember when I first read JOE's I Love Sunshine, I was graduating from junior high school. At that time, it was discovered for the first time that an author could achieve such great exquisiteness with such quiet words. Later, I read her most meaningful story and rented a boat to roam the south of the Yangtze River. She is very quiet, like a motionless kapok, and her words flow into my skin like sunshine washed thousands of times from the branches and leaves of kapok, like spring water. Because we are all students, it is not too difficult to read her words. Many times, * * * can spread endlessly without obstacles. And most importantly, her writing has an upward tension, just like someone standing in a high blue sky singing loudly. Many times when I am depressed or lonely, I will turn to the last chapter of I Love Sunshine. After reading it, my mood will be very calm, and I can hold a math reference book without complaint until the sun and the moon are dark and the mountains are seamless.

However, Annie Baby and Su Tong gave me a literal prison, just like a sparkling water dungeon. And I stood in the depths of the dungeon, looking up at the birds flying in the sky, with happiness in my pocket.

Su Tong. I have never understood why a man has Leng Yan's so flamboyant imagination, just like facing the sea in the sea, beautiful but stinging. The well he wrote about fate always appears in my dreams on stormy nights. I went to many places to see the wells in that place to see if anyone would call me down.

Annie, baby. I don't know how to write her. An unusually wandering soul, a soul that can write words into lonely flowers. Anne Baby weaves an empty city in the water, and I stand in this city like a lost child. Annie said that her palm was hollow, but I looked at mine, and it was dry and warm. Although the palm print is wrong, the vein is clear. I think I'm still a good boy. I just need Annie to pierce my soul with sharp posture and appropriate strength at the right time to prove that I am not numb and that I am a good boy.

Duras's broken grammar is like dense seaweed in the sea, a shaking soul, which entangles me in threads. Her words are always hidden in deep water. You have to hold your breath and dive into the water to see the beautiful fireworks blooming in the deep water and the gorgeous transparent illusion to the extreme. Then you surface, take a deep breath and meet the collapse after the rainstorm.

There are others, them or them, those who touched me.

In my dream, I am a person who loves to walk. I walked through all the villages and cities written in the book, even the vast grassland with flowers but no one. Through my four seasons, through my sadness.

Camel head, flowing wine/empty building in Syracuse/I want to hold buckwheat's hand/to the wind/to the cloud/to the peach blossom/to the river source/whose right hand/to pick up a silver needle/to roll up the cuff/to sew a copper buckle/to heal at the end of my world.

I am an easily injured child. After playing badminton, my arm will hurt for a month because of muscle strain. Trembling with chopsticks is ugly. But a month later, I can sweat happily with a racket again. However, the inner scars can clearly hurt again from beginning to end every night. Those wounds, like me, are stubborn children who refuse to cross Taiwan Province, because the heart is a warm and humid place, suitable for anything to grow.

I like to find a beautiful road and walk on it calmly. When I walked through the trees, I seemed to have walked through the sadness and joy that were obviously extinguished in my heart.

I always hope that I am a quiet inner person, not happy with things, not sad for myself. Like in vain, I "forgot the gesture of sadness and joy." But I have to admit, I am too big a lake, and a little wind can make me ups and downs. Many times, sadness and joy without warning can drown me in an instant.

I also like to squat on the side of the road and watch the plane leaves fall one by one, all the way to the whole earth. I always feel that those fallen leaves fall in a panic to cover up a big secret, but when I sweep away the fallen leaves, I always see the black asphalt road. Just like when I crouch on the side of the road and see a cloud coming slowly in the sky, I will look at the sky stupidly and want to see what is exposed after the cloud passes, but behind the cloud is still the unchanging sky for thousands of years, or the sky, always the sky. Similarly, my family used to have a beautiful mahogany box, which was locked but I couldn't find the key. My mother told me it was empty. I didn't believe it, so one day I finally opened it with an axe. I saw the bottom of the box without any lid. I destroyed a beautiful box for a change of air. Many times, I am exhausted just for this inexplicable doubt or the panic caused by uncertainty. I think I am really a very troublesome person.

People around me say that I walk lonely, with my hands in my pockets and my eyes fixed on an unknown place ahead. My friend said that I was really lonely when I was writing, my eyes flashed and my posture was a perfect defense. In fact, I am really lonely when I look up at the sky, but I always look up at the sky when I am alone. As the writer said: You will never see me when I love you the most, because I love you the most only when I can't see you. Similarly, you will never see my loneliest time, because I am the loneliest only when you can't see me.

I have many friends to play with, and many friends can kill three when a billboard falls. But there are really not many people I really want to love-not love between men and women, but really open my soul to accept the love of another soul. Besides, I am not an arrogant person. I am really a good boy, but occasionally I look up at the sky stupidly when I am lonely.

Xiao said that the loneliest plant in the world is willow. In the bright spring, she shook her white heart in the air and drifted with the wind, becoming lonely little by little.

I think maybe I was just a willow tree in my previous life, standing on the mountain wind, bursting into a white loneliness in the wind.

Whose loneliness/wearing my strange clothes/covering my scarred shoulders/whose bright moon/shining on my black pine mountain/whose loneliness/frustrating the roaring Cangjiang River in the mountains/whose lonely child/whose head is stuck in Laimei/night after night/indulging in singing/so vast/so desolate.

write

Writing is a dark suicide, Duras said so.

Some people say that I am good at telling stories, so I won the first prize, which is outstanding all over the country. Actually, they are wrong. I can't tell stories at all. I'm just good at cutting myself open bit by bit and then telling them everything about me bit by bit. I will not be a good novelist, because I am not used to telling other people's stories. Even if I want to write about a hardworking farmer in the Song Dynasty, I will still blame myself in the end. Even when I write the heroine, I am used to telling the story in the first person, constructing a good framework, and then filling my own flesh and blood bit by bit. This state needs to be neurotic enough to persist.

And I am a Gemini, so what I write will have a great contrast.

I am a person with dual personality, and obviously, Xiao always tells me that he can't tell whether I am a sunny person or a person who is used to suffering in the dark.

I live alone in an old house near my school now. At night, I always sit in front of the windowsill and write a lot of words until my fingers start to twitch.

Small ah said I was a desperate person. Sometimes I sit at my desk and watch the shadows of branches on the curtains outside the window, swaying like sign language.

In fact, I want to live a truly peaceful life in the future, do a normal and stable job, find someone to love, get married flatly and live in an ordinary house. I think I will leave my writing life and this displaced life one day. I just need to be a good husband and father. I think: happiness in your hands should be simple and transparent. Just like two geese, snuggling together and flying across the sky, so simple and so happy.

I have always been a complicated child, and many people say that I am difficult to understand.

I smiled at them. I am a person who often laughs, but I am not always happy. Many times, when I am sad, my tears have not come up and my smile has climbed to the corner of my eye. I am angry with the people I like, but the people I don't like smile at them.

Until one day I found the pleasure of writing, so I began to write constantly. It's like chasing black happiness blindfolded.

The hand of the river/the throat of the night/the bamboo house hanging on the moon/who cooks sake for me/those burning bamboo slips/those blooming wounds/and my Gemini/one here/one there.

I am such a child. I am honest and don't lie. But if one day you meet a child looking up at the sky in the street, it must not be me. Because when I look up at the sky, no one sees it.