Chapter 20 Bed is the grave of youth (4) (1)

Bed is the grave of youth (4) (1) When I lay on the windowsill of the classroom and looked at the well-organized lawns and clean concrete dams on the campus, those children wearing school uniforms, carrying big bags and wearing solid-colored hair—those exactly the same children were really the same stepping on the big road. As I walk through it in small steps, I think of the wall I loved to sit on when I was a child.I sat on the wall and watched the autumn wind run across the hillside all afternoon, and the leaves withered and turned yellow all night.At that time, I was too lazy to practice the piano and went to play house with the children on the hillside. I picked up fruit and ate the stolen goods and was caught and scolded.And in my uncle's garden, I cut up all the tulip bulbs and smeared the juice on my clothes.I even forgot for a moment that I was no longer young, and the sour lyrical essays written by my little sister were playing from the speakers on campus, and there was still a lot of homework on the blackboard... My dear Unruly Years, little K, you still Do you remember, we guessed rock-paper-scissors against the wall in the afternoon when we were punished, and you suddenly said, I am going to fly!So I saw a group of white pigeons passing by the window of the teacher's office, flying quietly and silently.The white feathers are as pure as your face with mud marks and sweat, so clean that I think it is as clear as yesterday when I recall it many years later.

Qu He's writing has been so condensed and calm that there is no need to be afraid, but what about me.I no longer cared about anything but my mood.I am a frustrated painter who repeatedly paints the same narrow landscape.The scenery is gone and I'll be damned. Now I care about weather, mood, food, grades.The only thing I can still do is to open a large volume of sketches, gouache paintings, and sketches to see if the date signed on it is still complete.Then I found the stave and turned it page by page, from Beyer to Czerny 599 to 749 to 849 to 299 to 740, and finally to Liszt's Hungarian Rhapsody 5, which tortured me to death the summer before last.Stiff hands lifted the piano cover and landed on the black and white keyboard, trembling shockingly, unable to play like Min written by Haruki Murakami.Holding the guitar and plucking the same chord awkwardly, a tear fell and hit the steel strings, and I heard the heavy accusation of thunder and explosions.Sorrow overflowed from the bottom of my heart and wet my face. I became depressed and stopped talking.

Is this growth?It's like turning pages of a book. Under the shackles of today’s still childish ideological background and poverty, I don’t go online, I don’t like chatting, pouring water, surfing and making personal homepages, I don’t play video games or watch TV, I don’t read literature or classics, and I don’t read martial arts, but neither do I. Watch news and current events.Prime Minister Zhu is out of class. I don't know that the 16th National Congress of the Communist Party of China is over. I don't know if there are other accomplices besides Lao Mei and that girl because of why they want to mobilize the crowd.Communism is about to be realized. I still only remember that Hericrates said two thousand years ago that it is impossible for a person to step into the same river twice.Quhe was about to change the electric guitar. I still hugged Muji and hummed "Birch Forest" with a dry voice.I am more and more retreating to reality and trends, and I am willing to fall into mediocrity.I've never been petty bourgeoisie, and the only impulse to be an angry youth was killed in the cradle.I don't scold the boredom of the political class and the compulsion to instill knowledge. I told myself not to be afraid to come next time when the exam was red...

………… I looked at myself, and my heart ached like a knife.Where did that ostentatious child go? He might not have grown up so quickly.I looked at my mind, which had been aging since I was sixteen, and felt very sad and indignant.I wanted to grab Shi Shi by the collar and punch him to death.I feel like I am in the middle of a crowd of people chasing after happiness, ideals, money, bungalows, small cars, beautiful women, caught in the middle, being staggered, staggered, pushed, squeezed, bumped, and led forward. They are all full of energy Enthusiastically pursued firmly in the midst of materialistic desires.I do not want.I also forgot a backpack in the back, which contained my toys and food.I'm going back to get it... I have to go back and get it.I will swim against the current.This is one of my ideals. I have dreamed countless times of a person walking against the crowd, with determination and hesitation engraved on his face.Always walking, his ideal is to either find the beginning of the world, or be destroyed at the end of the universe.

Kafka said that the real road is not so much for walking as it is for stumbling. I was looking for the direction of the stars in the barren wind, exhausted and excited but unable to stop.At the beginning of the creation of the world, the flood came from the scriptures.I stood in the center of the island and looked eagerly, but the black hurricane above the sky pressed down heavily.But I still believe, I believe as mercifully as Jehovah, that we as thinking creatures are God's masterpiece, with bright snow fields and peaceful villages beyond the black world.We will eventually decorate history as a glorious scar, and then be gently rubbed by future generations.We are just going through a dream of life, cloudy as if at a dead end, but when the sun wakes up and starts pouring his tears on this chapped land, everything will start again.Like the line in that Cannes movie: "Yes fantasy, we lack fantasy."