To keep from crying out, we hum and talk; to escape the darkness, we close our eyes. Fragments of time and memory drifted down over time, thickly oppressing my body and all active nerves.What a cruel mouse it is, every moment, it withers and passes by, but I can't stop it.Many have resisted it with armor or pretense, and I have resisted it with a wall, with a closed door and window, with a gesture of refusal, but to no avail, except death—the burial stone that denies it.There is no other way. Years ago, my mother used her death to deny the passage of time.I still clearly remember my mother who died of suffocation, the last shrill, terrifying, and tragic howl she uttered before she died, the sound was like a barbed steel needle, completely pierced My ear, it was deeply buried in my eardrum, and I could never pull it out again. The sound became an eternity, ringing in my ear forever.

Earlier, my mighty biological father.With the separation and detachment between him and my mother's life, my first-hand feelings about him disappeared.Make me completely cut off from the thread of his thought.He rejected time with this solo approach.My father always reminds me of a metaphor I've heard: Someone sows a seed and forgets about it.When he saw it again, he found that it had grown into a luxuriant flower tree with verdant branches and leaves, ready to bloom.It's just, what kind of seeds are these, what kind of flowers and trees.What kind of buds!He looked back, but couldn't find the starting point.

Time is made of the flow of my thoughts. Now, I am all alone.That's good, I don't need to talk anymore, I'm tired of the noise of the metropolis, those buzzing noises hovering around my mind like a swarm of invisible flies, chattering as if words were the only way, the only way food.People try to take possession of it in every possible way and make it go hand in hand with their future.And I just don't believe the buzz.But my personal power is so small, I can't kill the "flies", I can only avoid them from a distance. I live in a house in the old town of P that my mother bequeathed me, and I have peace of mind.This house has doors and windows all over, and a long corridor.

Living alone did not cause me any more anxiety.In the past, the days with my parents did not necessarily have any special warmth.It's good right now.Time seems to have gone through many years of running, and has been tired and stagnated. It is stagnant in my room and on my face. Time seems to be exhausted and sick.Stopped on my face and made my face look like it was years ago. However, my state of mind has entered the state of the elderly in advance.Everything slows down. For example, I no longer argue with others, because I have learned that all debates have nothing to do with where the truth is. It doesn't matter to me who wins or loses; I no longer think that the ground under our feet is the road, I believe it is just a huge and flustered chessboard, and most people in this world use their toes to think about the world and the world. Those who choose the road, if someone wants to choose the road with their minds and thoughts, then they should bear the loneliness that is not in line with the trend, like an old man with a rickety body like a question mark, standing on the side of the road quietly watching and doubting; I am keen on Vegetarian, almost a vegetarian, because I stubbornly and prejudicedly believe that only vegetarianism will not muddy the body and spirit, and keep the eyes clear and beautiful; I like the home gardening on my balcony, A tall rubber tree, a monstera and some perennials.I can enjoy the freshest green and pure oxygen without going to a park full of people and noise.

A few days ago, my doctor friend Qi Luo suggested that I should go to his hospital.He asked about my condition on the phone with concern.I replied that I didn't want to meet people, any kind of "others". Those words outside are a disguised light like moonlight, meaningless.To believe in talking is a consolation, as in believing in painting a loaf of bread. My body doesn't need pills any more than my spirit doesn't need any kind of religion. I said to him, if I need, I will come to you. Qi Luo said, your "shelter syndrome" is beyond cure. I know.One of the meanings of civilization is to give names to our strange people and things.It is just a naming, just like my name is Ni Aoao, it is a form, I don't know what is the difference between being called "Ni Aoao" and being called "a dog".

Now, I'm lying on my side on that huge soft bed, this bed—an ark on great waters, a castle in troubled times, my man and woman. A ray of flame-like morning light in summer, mixed with the empty noise outside, came in through the cracks in the window curtains, and wiped on the tired eyelids I didn't want to open, and the halo danced with the years on my eyelids. I don't like the feeling of being exposed to the sun, because it makes me lose my sense of hiding and security, it makes me feel that all the organs in my body are being exposed to the world, I will panic, and I must immediately place a sentinel at every pore, To resist the prying eyes of that light.However, there are too many suns in the world, and the light of each pair of eyes is hotter, more sinister, and more aggressive than the sun.If, let it intrude into the weak nature, then I will feel that I am losing, I am being deprived, and I will turn away.

Because, I know, a life covered by any kind of light will be full of pretense and lies. I was born on a night without any uniqueness in such an extraordinary year as 1968. I quietly emerged from my mother's restless womb, with a sense of maladjustment and fear of the world, like a frightened lamb, Crying loudly in panic.The light at birth was a soft baby blue, which made me dislike strong lights all my life. According to books on the zodiac and constellations, a woman born at this time is as strong in her convictions as the Spanish nun Therese Davila. But today, nearly thirty years later, I find that I did not climb over to avoid that blinding ray of light.At this moment, I am lying on the big bed, feeling the sunshine's feet jumping up and down on my eyelids, and time is turning pages with its footsteps.

I used to be an angel, but an angel can also grow into an irrational devil.As someone said, the road to hell is probably paved with ideals about heaven. What a crazy time frame it takes, all living cells developing into a dead stone under its powerful light. Now, I don't want to get out of bed.Why do you want to get up?I no longer have to get up and go to work and earn money like many people do. As long as I can maintain a minimum of food and clothing, I don't want to go out to earn money. I opened my eyes, stared at a strange inkblot next to the pillow, and examined it for a long time.For a moment, it was as if my soul had left my limbs and wandered around the bed, examining the body lying on the bed from three dimensions.So, I tried harder to identify the ink stain, trying to pull that puff of smoke-like soul back to my body.In this rose-coloured bedroom of mine, on this bed where I have been solitary for a year, there will be no sap but black and blue pen ink.A few pages of white paper and a pen were scattered under the pillow.I am used to writing or doodling on the bed with my pillow on it.Whether the fragments on the page are diaries, letters that never get delivered and have nowhere to post, or narratives that talk to themselves, they are undoubtedly the product of a strong conflict between my heart and the outside world. is my breath in this world.

I often feel out of normal consciousness.Feeling surrounded by enemies, I myself become another person besides me, even a genderless person, just like the person we saw in the American movie called, the person standing alone in the bathroom In front of the mirror, the hot air smeared a layer of water mist on the smooth surface of the mirror. The window was tightly closed, but the outdoor wind was still blowing in slowly and continuously, dancing the curtain in front of the bathtub, which just blocked the front of the mirror. private parts of the human body.The man shut himself in the bathroom full of narcissism.Because that person has exposed his heart and body to the dirty outside for too long.

Invisible eyes lurk everywhere in the air, peeping at this man with malicious intent. You don't know the person's gender because the person doesn't want you to know. I often feel like I am the person in that mirror.Apparently, I recognized myself in the mirror, which is a mixed form of an observing analyst and an observed and analyzed person, a person whose "sex" is covered or neglected by many external factors, a person without sex person.Due to the brilliance of this person, there is the possibility of developing in many directions.I also saw that the typical reality of the outside world had been completely distorted, distorted, as if it were all unreal.

Even though I have learned from many religious or philosophical books, whether in the East or in the West, this sense of self-separation is a necessary experience if one is to gain enlightenment and enlightenment.However, I am still worried that this depersonalization disorder will someday get out of control and explode into a kind of madness. In such a morning where the light is as dazzling as glass, I stare intently at the ink stain next to my pillow, which I probably accidentally made when I scribbled on the paper. This ink blot is very much like a map, a hollow map, which seems to symbolize some characteristics of the people who inhabit our sphere—emptiness, separation, fragmentation, and longing.On the top corner, it seems to be a pair of male and female goats, entrenched in the ultimate gender, yearning for possession, but also opposing and repelling; the broken ditch in the middle is a bottomless black hole; two monsters are running in opposite directions on the left and right ends dash. ...It is a giant heart that has been gradually devoured by the years, a skylight opened in the barren sky of the Bald Mountains.A lip eagerly breathing and full of vitality, an open womb waiting to be nourished by rain and dew, an eye full of tears, desperate to see through, a desperate lung sliced ​​by moths... I didn't want to get out of bed and let myself dwell on that blot for too long. For a year now, contemplation has occupied a large part of my daily life.In today's hedonistic modern life scene of "Life in the Game", it does seem unfashionable. In fact, blind joy is a kind of incompleteness, just like blind sorrow. I feel that the boundless emptiness and poverty are rising from the bottom of my feet day by day, and the days are like a cup of empty tea that cannot cheer me up.I don't know what else I need, and in the short course of my life I've tried everything I could.Tried what shouldn't be tried. Maybe, I still need a lover.A man or woman, an old man or a teenager, or even just a dog.I am no longer demanding and limiting.It's like I have to make myself know how to give up perfection and accept incompleteness.Because, I know, pure sex, how stupid it is! For me, a lover doesn't have to be a sexual person.Because that stuff is just a seasoning, a luxury. Sex has never been an issue for me. My problem is elsewhere - a broken man in a broken time.