When A looked away from the sunset in the distance, Eminem’s “STAN” was playing in my headphones.
”I can’t write anymore, or I can’t write at all, who knows?” A subconsciously opened his hands.
I took off my headphones and put them in my pocket deftly. The evening breeze flows through my body like a river in front of me, taking away the depressed time with the sunset. The rolling river tide imbues the sunset with a dark purple halo. The rolling mountains and rivers on the other side are winding green waves, mixed with the brightness and darkness of the sunset, and turn into Hercules in Greek mythology, blocking out the sky and the sun. The birds fly back together, their feathers covered with a layer of light.
A and I walked side by side on the Yangtze River Bridge. The bridge runs from north to south, connecting the county town with the resort on the other side. Like a pair of invisible hands, it shortens people’s travel time, as if the space is compressed even more compactly for a moment.
As A said, neither he nor I have ever picked up a pen to write down our own inspirations or thoughts for a long time.
We talked about literature.
Turning my head, the sunset rippled in my eyes carelessly.
The early morning mist wanders through the streets of the small town. Like most high school students in China, I started to wash up, eat, and then put on my schoolbag. The light sunlight spreads in the classroom, soft and warm.
At ten o’clock in the evening, I put on the fatigue of the day and went home, and the heavy night passed through my chest.
Whenever I look up at the starry night sky, it is a misty river. The flickering points of light, bright and distant, poured into it, reflecting my dreams. But the chocolate-like sticky night enveloped me, making it impossible for me to breathe comfortably. I often think that writing is leaving me, like a gray-black snow sculpture. One day, it climbs over the towering white Kilimanjaro, and then the endless plateau rushes from the vast horizon, the blue sky and The lush grassland made it linger, so it forgot that it could only feel the breath of nature by walking through the cliffs.
Writing is getting away from me. On an ordinary cold winter night, I told A. A didn’t seem to intend to answer. Until we reached a fork in the road at the school gate, I tied my shoelaces and caught up with him. He turned around and looked at me and said that he was going to transfer to Shanghai. The cars speeding by on the highway bring biting cold wind, sucking away the thin warmth on the street layer by layer. Maybe he didn’t hear me, I don’t know. We said goodbye in the next alley. He stood under the white street lights and slowly watched me being swallowed up by the night in the alley. Light snow began to fall in the sky.
I think the educational level and philosophy in Shanghai are very different from those in the Mainland. There, he can receive a better education and learn more meaningful literary knowledge in Chinese classes instead of boring argumentative writing skills or templates.
After every busy evening self-study class, every time on the way home. We talked about Shi Tiesheng, Haruki Murakami, Wang Xiaobo’s “The Golden Age”, and any topic about literature. We enjoy this short journey with each other. The night pulls people’s thoughts into the vast galaxy, and is as lonely and fragile as eternity. In high school, we are racing against time every day to deal with chemical elements and Taylor’s formula. In the Chinese class, the teacher repeatedly explained the structure and format of argumentative essays. Even the last subject related to literature left literary things behind and required us to maintain a rational thinking at all times. A always told me that articles without perceptual thinking have no soul. Of course, this does not mean abandoning the rational thinking mode. Maybe we are living in an overly rational era now. When I was sitting in the back row of the classroom, with the fan constantly making horizontal cutting motions, the teacher’s microphone, and the sound of the next class playing ball outside the window, I gradually realized that it had been a long time since I had read a book, a book full of literary flavor. I thought I hid them all, but they were just sitting on my bookcase. If one day the price of growing up is to lose my enthusiasm for books, then I would rather walk into the cycle of time and savor the joy that reading literary works brings me bit by bit.
When I was in elementary school, the class teacher would assign us a task of writing a weekly diary every weekend. Then on the next Monday, she would collect all our weekly diaries for correction, grade them one by one, and then the excellent compositions would be read aloud to the whole class. . I remember that my father asked me to write an outline and clarify my content and framework before I started writing. Over time, in a state of extreme responsibility for literature, my compositions were frequently studied by the whole class. Like a long river, it widens from the trickle of the canyon to merge into the Yangtze River and finally merges into the vast sea of stars. I found that my thinking and ideas were constantly broadening, and writing became easy for me. I began to submit articles to some publications, and even flew to Shanghai to receive an award for a poem. For me as a young person, these experiences were undoubtedly a beacon in the ocean, shining with indelible light and inspiring me to keep moving forward. Like a crystal clear crystal ball, shining in the sun.
However, now I tell A that the distance between literature and me is as far away as the Pacific Ocean. This is not a unit of length but a unit of time, how long it takes for a person to cross the Pacific Ocean, one year, two years, or how many seasons. I think I need to spend an equal amount of time making up for it in order to catch up with the pace of literature that has left me. As I grew up, I lost some things. Those things were my wild imagination, the ability to write articles at my fingertips, my passion for literature, and everything I gained from literature.
People should talk about literature as beautifully as they talk about the snow on the mountain top. It is the clouds on the horizon, bathing in the morning glow, giving people freedom and longing, or the mist floating on the mountainside giving people curiosity and joy. But people nowadays seem to have lost interest in books. As they walk on the street or on the subway, light spills from the mobile phone screen and roams on their faces. Low-level entertainment envelops them in a small core. Is everyone really happy? When the afterglow of the setting sun hits the rush hour of get off work at 17 o’clock, the crowds of people coming and going become fleeting silhouettes, and everyone passes by in the lives of others. I often think of a saying that everyone lives in the moments of their own life. It is a blessing to have so many precious moments in a person’s life.
A went to Shanghai and we communicated frequently. He told me that literature comes from life. Only when your life makes you feel satisfied or you accept your life happily can you write good words. I think this is the answer A didn’t give me on that snowy night. I once imagined that writing could get along with me as harmoniously as writing, but this feeling is mysterious, weird and unpredictable, so much so that it is just a luxury wish in my heart. Sometimes I really want to talk to myself, as if I have become two people, one who has always loved literature, and the other who is as numb as those who are wrapped in fruit cores without knowing it. When two people sit face to face on the endless grassland, the night sky is full of stars, and the light of the Milky Way leaks from the sky and shines on the two faces. You will find that one of you is as white and flawless as the snow on the top of the mountain, while the other you can clearly see his heart beating heavily and he gradually becomes transparent. Suddenly the entire Milky Way pours towards you like a wave, the waves slap on your shoulders, and the you as white as snow disappears, pouring into the moment of life together with the raging wave. I don’t want literature to just be a fleeting moment in my life. It should be a kind of eternity. Although this kind of eternity is as lonely as fireworks, I am addicted to the beauty and holiness when it blooms.
I think I should travel, to Iceland where the auroras appear in the night sky, to the forests of Norway, to drive to see the tall trees in the cold mist walking through my field of vision like giants, to see Scandinavia The unique fjords of the peninsula… I like high latitude areas very much. They are primitive and quiet. It seems like a pair of deep eyes are watching my every move, just like the legend of Cthulhu in Nordic mythology. I imagined that I had a wooden residence in the northernmost part of Scandinavia. I went out to relax during the day, and the quiet forest mist caressed my eyes. I heard that in those high latitude areas, there are almost no pedestrians when traveling. The density of residents there is very low. You may only see 11 or 2 people a kilometer away, and people will greet each other enthusiastically. Everyone slows down and enjoys life. Return home, light the lights in the thick night, keep out the cold and loneliness, and look out the clear window, maybe you can see the aurora. A person sits on a wooden chair and is accompanied by literature, quietly immersing himself in the world in the book. A said that when you create, what you need most is a quiet environment. I think this will be an excellent place. In the environment that most of us live in, people work and rush for life. We have adapted to this fast-food era. How many people can slow down their pace to pursue the poetry buried in their ordinary years? thing. The sea of stars in my youth has dried up in the ebb and flow.
Who are we racing against, ourselves, or the time that comes and goes, which one do we grasp, the past and the future? There may be light that supports them in people’s miserable lives, but in their spiritual world there must be a golden wheat field with a little girl dancing in the wind and a little boy flying a kite. Where they are now, the answer is to plant wheat seedlings full of vitality for their own lives, and their children and their descendants will continue to dance on this land. As for me, I thought I should write something for them. The keyboard under my fingers was my key, and the music was sometimes fast and sometimes high-pitched. Literature is visual music, and it should be the most beautiful art in the world. From the era of Homer to Shakespeare to Hugo, Dickens, Maugham, and finally to modern times, it turns out that literature has never been far away from people. Literature makes reality abstract and gives people spiritual comfort. Good works are supported by people It has become a masterpiece. It teaches people about life and allows them to see the hope of life. Taking off the heavy coat of reality, you can still be that little dancing girl in the book.
In the golden dusk, I found literature, which may have never left. A is right, literature is a vast ocean, so how could it leave me. I’m growing up, every minute of every day. I will eventually grow up and become an adult, waiting for the subway at 7:30 on time. Will I become numb without knowing it? But I will not forget writing. Writing is not a tool for life, but a continuation of real life. Maybe I can’t write such gorgeous and profound words, but I like the words I write, and I just want to remember it. On a certain day of a certain year, a certain month, I climbed over a mountain, turned my head, and saw a strong wind blowing through my youth.
When A looked away from the sunset in the distance, Eminem’s “STAN” was playing in my headphones.