Chapter 3 Monologue

Imagine walking alone on a desolate night street. A dull sound follows you tenaciously, like a black shadow under a dim light. You don’t know whether you should cherish it or can’t bear it: it is the soliloquy of your footsteps. When people are lonely, they often utter strange words or actions.Action is also a kind of language. Werther, who resolutely left Lotte, walked alone on the bank of the sun and weeping willows, as if in a dream.The alluring colors aroused his desire to be a painter again, so he decided to try his own destiny; he took out a small knife from his pocket, and threw it into the river from the weeping willow.If he can see it fall he will be a painter, otherwise not.Does that lonely wave move you?Do you understand?

I also thought of a character in the Western Jin Dynasty who loved to travel alone by car, and would cry bitterly when he reached a place where the ruts were impassable. Climbing to the top, who doesn't give a long and sad howl?Do you want to fill the vastness of the universe with his voice?When I was questioned, I was afraid that I could only bow my head silently.I once walked into an ancient building, and the painted cornices all scrambled to tell me something, and the low stone railings also made noises, moaning like some stoic, thoughtful fingers, and I myself became— a fossil. Or under the dim light, an outstanding book is placed in front of you, and you will hear the monologues of the characters in it.A tender soliloquy, a sad soliloquy, or a violent soliloquy.The black door is closed: a soul forever waiting dies inside, a soul forever seeking dies outside.Every soul is a world without windows.And lovely souls are stubborn monologues.

My thoughts are not racing across the wilderness.There is a lonely old house, the painted walls are scattered, and the steps are covered with white moss, as if waiting for the last footsteps: when I am alone, I am fascinated. Is there really such a place, or is it in a dream?Or just two chapters of Su Xi's favorite poems, a strange fusion without connection: the curtain is half drawn, the floor is swept, the shadow of ivy is crawling on the bed of the dead; the soul of the dead returns to the house he knew Here, friends are having dinner, laughing and talking about "tomorrow and tomorrow", but no one remembers "yesterday".

Is this decadent?I can think about "death" beautifully, but can't I think about "life" beautifully? Why do I take too much breath: "Those who go away are less talkative, and those who are alive are close each other"?It's lamenting that I was stretched by the hand of Mingming, and a "person" crouched in the center like a spider.The more hatred alienates each other, the more love increases false ties.Has anyone ever looked around and jumped in his own net, and felt the sorrow of being bound willingly because there is not enough thread to cut? Have people forgotten, or have I forgotten people?

"Here is your hat".Or "here is your scarf, let's go for a walk", I can still say these familiar sentences.And my friend with a gentle silence, I remember him more: he has a strange drawer in his room, and a delicate little envelope with a letter of lilac.Or the unknown fan-shaped leaves, as if to share my loneliness and show his gentle memory.On the wall is a small picture, turned over to the back, it says "The Fisher Girl of the Moon". Ugh.I tried to think to myself: that which makes human beings warm, I am either too short of it or full of it. Both are sufficiently pathogenic.

The Indian prince travels and sees birth, old age, sickness and death, so it comes from the great wish of the Indians.I would also like to have the shade of Bodhi, sit under it and think for a while.Although what I want to think about is another topic. So, my eyes lingered on the window.The sky pressed against the window like a gloomy face, breathing suffocatingly.Is this why I'm depressed?And, in the left corner of the pane, I found an eavesdropper of my monologue: like a cast-off body of a Maemi, crouching upward, silent.Silently, following it—a pair of long tentacles, three pairs of crooked, thin legs.I remembered that it was the shadow of an insect I drew with my own hands. When it slowly climbed onto my window paper, it made a lonely silvery sound, in a passing sunny autumn.

March 2, 1934