Chapter 3 Hunter's Requiem

The spring in Shanghai has been slow to come, but the winter has continued to become a raging fire that urges the city again and again.I always feel the pervasive coldness of winter like a flame in the gap between raising and lowering my head. The date is January 2004.There is no snow in Shanghai.There are still plenty of cars.I sneezed in the cold air. A dog crossed the street abruptly, in the middle of the road, and just when I thought it was about to be torn apart by a torrent of traffic, it suddenly disappeared. In the past few days, I have always had the illusion that I am an ancient hunter, forgot my bow and arrow, and walked in the wrong forest.The eagle on the head spreads its blue wings, one flap means seven reincarnations.But always silent.Thinking of the dead Haizi for no reason, he said, when there are lilies in the field, and birds in the sky / when you still have a big bow and a bag full of good arrows / what should be forgotten is long forgotten / what should be left will stay forever / when The hunter and the gods/or sit up or sit, sometimes look at each other, sometimes forget each other.

I think Haizi must have been very lonely at that time, the wind came through the sky and then fled the ground. In the last month of 2003, I experienced the most intense busyness of my life, drinking coffee was useless, non-stop drinking coffee would eventually turn into non-stop toilet trips.During this period of time, I kept taking off and landing at the airports of different cities, watching the flocks of birds rising and falling outside the glass window of the plane in every loose morning and every long dusk, the white of white gulls, the gray of pigeons , into the windless forest together.And in that forest, I used to walk through the impermanent seasons one after another with my feet on the flames. I tied up my messy hair with rough black ropes, and drew my bow in the gushing sunset, making each dusk extraordinarily long. .

I stayed in a city with different scenery but also unfamiliar, opened the curtains of the hotel and quietly watched this strange city multiply under my feet.I always see the pulse of movement in the whole city, those rushing cars, those numb people.The setting sun is actually not far away, but no one can see it.I saw many children carrying backpacks, running along the wall as fast as I did back then. I heard the sound of the wind stretching their shadows. I knew that they would be in a very short time. In a gap in time, he suddenly grew up, at a loss, and his heart was like a wilderness.I don't know which day of the year they will suddenly stop at a certain street corner, and then turn around and see a field of fallen leaves in a hurry.Maybe they will never know how long the dusk is behind them that they don't notice, and how wide the sunset is that they don't watch, but the hunter knows.The hunter has traveled through the forest for thousands of years. He has seen the sunset in every season, and watching has become the highest belief in his life.And hundreds of thousands of years later, that hunter had already carried the aura of the setting sun on him.And the mournful cries of eagles above his head, hurt, hurt, hurt.

It was the end of January 2004.The tall grass in Sichuan has all disappeared in the cold and sudden wind in winter.Standing in those withered prosperity, among the stumps and dead leaves, I heard my friends in Shanghai tell me, four, it’s snowing here.She said that she stuck it on the tall glass window of the bus to see the outside world, and she felt very clean all of a sudden. Standing in the tall withered grass, I suddenly remembered Hasumi, who also squatted in the withered and yellow wheat field after autumn harvest, hiding among the tall haystacks.The setting sun rose from behind him, he wore earphones and did not speak, and I could hear his inner roar even with my eyes closed.Lily, Lily, Lily, he said.He squatted down with headphones on and listened without breathing, while the world of heaven and earth was still so quiet and big.

The wind blows hollowly.Another year passed like this.In the coming year, it will be like this.I don't know whether there is depression hidden behind the stability, or there is stability in the depression.Just us, can't find it. I am more and more afraid of the crowd but more and more eager to get close to the crowd. I always try to find the old stories from those indifferent faces.Everyone is a river, coming from the emerald green youth, and then rolling away silently.Sweeping quicksand, dead leaves, fossils, scriptures, magnificent temples and blue towns along the road.In the end, it merged into a huge and impeccable memory, which disappeared into the void with a bang.It's all vanity, it's all chasing after the wind.A mournful soul, a lonely spirit.

Who is flying the faceless pipa in the desert, waving his hand and saying goodbye, pointing out the obscurity of the Western Paradise all year round.The city always wakes up every windy and sandy dusk. Who remembers, who has seen it, the hunters with bows and the silent swordsmen on horses.The soulless cinnabar and the red sleeves with water are all tides without reincarnation. Who hugs who from behind, who kisses who from front, who mourns who on whose cliff, who buries whom in whose shirt. Suddenly, I began to be nostalgic for my hometown, which is not a prosperous city. I like the vulgar life here.Rampage with friends in this city every day, singing on the flyover at midnight, staring at the rainy street.I am still the middle school student who carried a schoolbag and wore dusty jeans two years ago, and was scolded by the teacher for occasionally growing long hair.Take out your wallet to buy Mirinda in a familiar supermarket, and look up at the bus stop sign in an unfamiliar street.While waiting to pick up my classmates at the coach station, I squatted down boredly and stared at a stray dog.

I always think of a sentence my friend said in the winter. He said that when you close your eyes and open them, it has been ten years.And I still live so stubbornly.Blast said, I am long dead, but you are still alive. Haizi said, there is no night that can make me sleep / no dawn that can wake me / no tears that can make me a flower / no king that can make me a throne. Haizi is the forever shining king in my territory, but I am the forever lonely hunter in the forest. There are always birds that will be printed and dyed in the lava, and they will never sing again.