Where to start? At the end of 2002, I ended my wandering career and just settled down in a city.At that time, I changed several girlfriends one after another, and I didn’t feel any sense of stability in my life. The so-called stability was simply renting a one-bedroom apartment of less than 40 square meters in a family area of ​​a university in the west of the city. I often sit in a small courtyard with a beer on days when I don’t have a job.The advantage of the first floor is that there is a small courtyard. It was already snowing season, but I didn't feel the cold.When I was in the army, I once spent half a month in the northeast mountainous area where the temperature was minus 30 degrees. It was the so-called survival training in cold regions, and I was used to the cold for a long time.When I was filming in Tibet, I often woke up shirtless and ran in the white hair wind in the morning, and my colleagues regarded me as crazy.

An important reason why I was in a daze in the small courtyard was that the room was very messy and filled with many of my things.All kinds of books, pirated discs, bags full of clothes, etc., I have never opened or organized, because every time I open and organize, many things always emerge in my heart.I don't know what kind of mentality a 27-year-old has to avoid the past, but I just don't want to open these things, or dare not open them. I am afraid. Afraid to recall those dreams of youth. Those dreams about the future, about love, about brothers. In my own memory, the age of 17 to 20 is a serious fault line.

I remember many things about my kindergarten, elementary school, and middle school, and I also remember many things after I went to college, even vividly. But what about my 17-20 story? Forgot, only a few fragments remained. Only when I was in the shower and saw my bloated body in the mirror would I laugh at myself: "Look, what have you become now? When you were in the army..." Then stop thinking about it, artificial. I also have many friends in the army, they often call me, and occasionally come to the city where I live for business, and they will also visit me.But I never take the initiative to contact them. Hearing their excited voices, the long-lost simplicity and unique hoarseness in that voice always makes me sad.

I wasn't like this when I just left. However, everything is a trick of good fortune. I don't want to stop drinking beer. Far away, through the falling snowflakes, I heard a roar. "One two, one two..." My mind suddenly froze. I am too familiar with this slogan. But there was only one person, and the rhythm continued intermittently. I stood up suddenly and opened the door of the small courtyard. The sound came from the construction site in the direction of the university library.There is a multimedia teaching building donated by a Hong Kong philanthropist and named after him. It is usually very noisy. Maybe it is because of the heavy snow, so it didn't start today.

how come?How could there be such a password? I walked over quickly. I first saw a group of migrant workers squatting under the eaves, laughing and pointing, as if they were watching a western scene. I also saw a few female college students coming out of the library, without even looking at them, they walked over with dignity. What else did I see? A lonely figure. A lone log. A lonely face. He was wearing a faded camouflage uniform, a pair of dilapidated camouflage military boots, and his head was bald. The snowflakes melted when they fell on his head, turning into a cloud of white gas and rising into the sky.

Unlike the camouflage uniforms worn by other migrant workers, his camouflage uniform is tucked into his trousers, with a wide green nylon belt and a black metal buckle; There are a few patches, embroidered with fine stitches; the trousers are neatly tucked into the worn-out high-waisted camouflage canvas waist light military boots, and the shoelaces are neatly tied... He was chanting and moving a log. He lifted one end of the log first, put it on his shoulders and set it up against the ground, then straightened it up, pushed it forward again at a time, and then lifted it up again...and so on.

The migrant workers around were watching jokes. His face, a typical southerner's face, is dark, with small eyes, wide lips, and a sharp nose. Throw him in the pile of migrant workers, and it will be difficult for you to find him again. But his eyes. Shining, murderous. He roared, with murderous look in his eyes: "One, two..." I froze in place, my lips moved, and something called tears flowed in my eye sockets. I shouted hoarsely: "Squad leader—" "Check your weapons and pay attention to my password. This is the first group-scale combat live ammunition shooting training, you must pay attention to safety! Which ghost son didn't listen to my password, so I opened the insurance first and stuffed him back through the asshole! "

In the roar of the Mi-171 helicopter, cold sweat dripped from the tip of my nose, holding the 95 automatic rifle, the body of the gun was wet.My heart was up and down following the turbulence of the helicopter. The squad leader's camouflage face turned to me, his small eyes were burning brightly: "Are you alright?" "it is good." The monitor looked me in the eye. I look into his eyes. The squad leader smiled, showing white teeth. He reached out to wipe off the sweat on my face: "You son of a bitch, give me a good beating! I'm just waiting for you to earn my face!"

His eyes are a mixture of arrogance and confidence. I saw those eyes again. The moment he turned around, that murderous look disappeared, and another person changed. how to say? A humble migrant worker. "Squad leader." I called out again, my voice fluttering. Those eyes smiled. "Turtle son, why do you have hair like a woman's hair now?" We all stood where we were, looking at each other. The squad leader looked at me with sadness in his eyes. I ran over and hugged him: "Squad leader..." Tears streamed down his shoulders. No non-commissioned officer on the shoulders.

The squad leader hugged me. Slowly began to sob: "Turtle son thought you forgot me..." Snowflakes are falling on our heads. In the winter in this city, the falling snow covered up all the ugliness. In the winter of this city, I reunited with my monitor. I am a cultural bum who is called a freelancer, and my monitor is a migrant worker. The difference between him and other migrant workers is that he carries logs by himself when he thinks about the army.