Chapter 27 dream never described in a short story

The describer sits in a shed by the side of the road and writes down all kinds of dreams for passers-by.Many years have passed, and those strange artistic conceptions are all in his description.The usual situation is like this: passers-by—they are all ordinary people, but their expressions are a little confused when they enter the shed—come in, sit on the ground, their dictation is either pleasant, or mechanical, Or addicted, or obscure, all vary from person to person.The describer sat across from each other calmly, wrote them down one by one, and put them in a black-shell notebook, and the passer-by left sadly.The number of dreamers gradually decreased, and the describer felt lonely day by day, but he still stubbornly stretched his neck and looked towards the end of the road.He was looking forward to a never-before-described artistic conception, which condensed a lot of heat and blinding light.He couldn't be sure that the artistic conception had clearly appeared in his mind, he was just sure that there was such a artistic conception.He himself could not directly write that artistic conception into the black book.He has to wait for someone to appear who can express this artistic conception in his own dream, and then dictate his dream to the describer on the side of the road, and the describer will record it for him.With so many twists and turns in the middle, the only thing the describer can do is to wait.

Day after day, the people who waited were always unable to directly describe the artistic conception in the heart of the describer, and the artistic conception could not be translated into words, and its uncertainty could not be improved.The describer is getting more and more depressed every day, but he still stretches his neck stubbornly.The cold wind of winter blew his hands and feet full of cracks, and the humidity of spring made his joints swell like small steamed buns. The simple shed by the roadside also began to leak rain.Most of the passers-by didn't stop to talk to him about their dreams, but just looked at him indifferently, and hurried on their way.The describer carefully looks at them one by one, his heartbeat regularly ebbs and flows between hope and disappointment.Sometimes a day passed, only one or two people came into his shed, and their dreams were very ordinary, although there were ecstasy of traveling in the vast space, but also the conceit of staying in the cave deep in the earth's crust; The horror captured, and the bleakness of the dying, etc., but they have never dreamed of the artistic conception in the heart of the describer.

Maybe it's just torture, a trick?The describer asked himself countless times, and couldn't find the answer countless times.When the dreaming passer-by left, the light of the undescribed artistic conception made him tremble all over, and this trembling—just the trembling itself convinced him of the existence of that artistic conception.So he called the artistic conception that has never been described or clearly appeared in his mind "wind". "Wind" appears every time the dreamer leaves.It wasn't just the dreamers he was craning his neck to wait for now, he knew there would be that light after they were gone, and he saw it more and more.

In the rainy season came an old woman, holding a huge umbrella, her snowy white hair was disheveled by the wind, and the eyeballs in the slender eye sockets had no eyesight, but she was not blind.She went into the shed, let the describer touch her cold fingers, and continued on her way.It was on this day that the describer stopped describing the dreams of passers-by, and did not crane his neck to look around.Yet he was still waiting, and he seemed to know what he was waiting for.His artistic conception gradually became more uncertain with the passage of time, and his hearing became dull day by day.Often, passers-by walked into the shed and he was still in reverie.Only one thing is clear, and that is that at some point, his heart will inevitably jump in that empty mood with invisible light, and his blood will boil like a galloping horse.

Some people still came to his shed occasionally, and the dreams they narrated were more and more bizarre. Everyone complained that what they saw could not be described, and because they could not be described, sometimes they left in the middle of talking.The describer, who understands all this, holds a black-shell notebook and a pen, and pretends to listen carefully, but actually writes down nothing.When the dreamer left, the artistic conception that made him tremble still appeared in his mind as before, but there was a blank space, and some shadow-like things were dangling around.He was not sure, but he was satisfied, closed the notebook, sat on the ground for a short rest, the moment of rest is sweet.

Here is his conversation with a dreamer: Dreamer: "What have I said? What I said is less than one-tenth of what I saw. That feeling will no longer be there. Why can't I say it? It's so heartwarming! It's too windy here ." Descriptor: "Hmm." Dreamer: "What you write down here is all nonsense, but we still ask you to record it. Everyone knows that you are the only one here to record it. I really want to say it. Tell me, is it me? Your eloquence is not good?" Descriptor: "Your words are really interesting." The departed dreamers never reveal to outsiders the artistic conception they narrated to the describer, which seems to be a tacit understanding between them.And they, after telling the dream to the describer, feel that they have deposited a fortune in his shabby shed.In fact, they seldom recall what they have narrated, but they remember the scene when they narrated it, because that is their wealth.They didn't focus on whether the describer wrote something into his notebook, they focused on going to the shed to narrate the act itself.Although they kept complaining and grumbling as they narrated, as if they were impatient and full of boredom, in fact, in their hearts, they were quite satisfied with themselves.Once out of the shed, they feel that they are ordinary people, they are willing to keep the special communication between them and the describer as the highest secret, and they are willing to see the black book, which makes them feel familiar. , feel like you belong.

No one expected that the describer would abandon his black leather notebook, because it recorded a large number of strange dreams and was considered the wealth of many dreamers.Now that the notebook was thrown away by him, he lightly explained it as "disappeared", and he didn't want to bring it up again. There are still sporadic passers-by who come to his dilapidated shed.As usual, he sat upright on the ground solemnly, listening to what they had to say, and remained silent himself.The disappearance of the notebook did not affect this special communication between them. Among the sporadic passers-by, some had been here before and some had never been.Secretly, they all realized the benefits of not having a notebook, because they can speak without scruples.Now that the describers are here, each of them has to say something long or short, and they begin to speak, but who can hear what they say?That seemed impossible.Today, many years later, we can see that those people did not say anything meaningful, they just spit out some syllables casually to delay time.And the describer didn't listen carefully, he just pretended to be listening carefully, but in fact he was thinking about other things in his heart.It can be said with certainty that he was thinking about the emptiness of the artistic conception, anxious and distressed for the arrival of the artistic conception, but knowing that "haste makes waste", so he could only perfunctorily pretend to be listening to a dream.As a result, part of the long time passed in this intentional delay.So repeatedly, tirelessly.

The describer himself thinks that throwing away the notebook is of course very free and easy, very good, but there are also some disadvantages.One of them is that he is now more and more dependent on the dreamer.He divides his life into stages according to the arrival of the dreamer, he no longer remembers the time he spent in the shed, his sense of time has completely disappeared.Whenever he wants to recall something, he thinks like this: "That was the day when the man with the brown face came..." or "The afternoon when the woman with the butterfly spots came..." or "No one came. "The day when..." or "The morning when someone came and left without saying anything..." and so on.On the surface, this division seems to be very convenient, but due to the decrease in visitors and his memory gradually degraded with the decrease in visitors, this division is very hazy and deceptive, reversed and confused Things like this happen from time to time, but fortunately he doesn't care much about such things now, and he's becoming more and more casual.

If more than two passers-by arrive in one day, the describer regards this day as a festival.After the dreamer left, he still sat on the ground in the shed, with his back straightened, his expression infinitely solemn, and his whole body trembling in the light that no one, including himself, could see.This kind of time does not happen often, and the describer knows it, so he doesn't seem very anxious.He also knows that it is not their own subjective will that makes the dreamers come, but the will that determines their coming is actually in his own heart.He no longer craned his neck to look towards the end of the road. Usually he was in a peaceful state of mind, his only little impatience was when the dreamer came, and he knew what was after that.After that, we saw him shivering in the cold wind, bringing his swollen knuckles to his mouth to breathe, and in his eyes, there was an unspeakable ecstasy.

Many people say that the describer is just a fiction because he cannot verify himself.They are right.There is no chronological record of the describer's own existence, which occurred in the middle and later stages of his describing career.He shrunk inward in his strange shell, until at last no one could see him.What people saw was only an empty shell abandoned on the side of the road, similar to the shell of the most common river clam.Occasionally it is claimed that the describer's voice came to him from a deep, deep cave, but the cave was so deep that when it reached him, it seemed almost It's almost like the cry of ants.Claims like these are useless.Yes, every day we see the describer sitting in a shed by the side of the road, in the same posture and in the same manner.It is strange that unexpected difficulties arise whenever we try to consider him as a fellow.We have previously described his personal life, and his mysterious exchanges with passers-by.But these are all attempts to explain what happened from his own standpoint. If we put aside these things and ask us to analyze him independently, no one feels that it is within our capabilities.Almost no one can remember any details about him, such as a sentence, an expression, a gesture, a line of writing and so on.Everything about him exists in his own narrative, and that narrative is a kind of ethereal thing that lacks time division.Most crucially, no one can translate his narrative into our language.We cannot hear his narration, no one has heard it.

In 1990, the tenth year that the describer had built a shed by the roadside, an unprecedented snowstorm fell.After the heavy snowfall, all the residents came out into the street, stomping, gasping, and talking about the heavy snowfall.They walked into the describer's dilapidated shed, and saw that the blizzard tore away half of the roof, and the snow inside the shed was piled two feet deep.The describer himself is seen sitting silent in the snow, with snowflakes on his eyebrows and hair.No one noticed that a wisp of hot air was curling up from the nape of his neck.What kind of heat is transpiring in his body? "From now on, no one will come to me to talk about the artistic conception of dreams." The describer announced to people with a rigid tone. "That time is over. Just now, I have decided on this matter." No one heard him talking, no one paid attention to him, no one ever tried to pay attention to him. The describer is still sitting on the side of the road waiting.Now no one came to him anymore, that is to say, it was no longer the dreamers he was waiting for.His body is sitting upright, his thin face is always turned to the north, and all expressions are abandoned on his face.He is still intoxicated in that blank artistic conception, but people cannot see his reaction to that artistic conception.What one sees is a man in rags, a near-idiot, sitting in a dilapidated hut by the side of the road to pass the time.This unconventional behavior did not arouse people's goodwill towards him. Now everyone is a bit disgusted with him, and they deliberately turn their faces away when passing by, or raise their voices, pretending not to pay attention to the shed. The division of time outside the describer thus stagnates, and soon he no longer has any sense of time.Once or twice a day, he would come out of the shed to look at the passing cars, the pedestrians, and the sky above, although it was more likely that he was not looking at anything but just observing.There is no certain time to come out, sometimes in the morning, sometimes in the afternoon, and sometimes in the middle of the night.At the beginning, he didn't know what he was doing, and after many days, he suddenly realized that he was re-dividing time according to his own subjective will. This is a new kind of time, and he will live in this kind of time from now on , this matter is also his own decision. There was such a describer, but this is very unimportant, because nothing is important to us that is unproved.We only admit that there was this man, we saw this man, we remembered this man - we said so in 1990. The describer's heart became more and more comfortable. He heard the galloping horses in his chest, and felt the temperature of his blood rising and rising. Every beat of his heart made him extremely intoxicated.He still couldn't see the magical artistic conception, even if he saw it, he couldn't describe it, because he had already wasted his skills, he didn't know how to describe it, and this was his secret sorrow, This sorrow is also a source of joy, which will never be known. He walked out of the shed, feeling vaguely in his whole body that he was walking into that artistic conception.He couldn't see anything, but he was seen staring at passing cars.His subjectively counted time thus increases.He himself felt deeply: there will be no more descriptions.But compared with the previous description career, he feels that the current life has formed an iron track, heading straight to the blank space ahead.His imagination and expression are still tortuous, but he is no longer troubled by this matter, because there is no need to express anything.He described it in his head.This is just speculation on our part because no one knows. The gray-haired old woman came again several times, each time staying longer in the shed.She is seen touching the describer's forehead with her icy fingers, but that's all, and both parties remain silent.This is something that people notice by accident and forget about immediately afterwards.Every time after the old woman left, the describer walked out of the shed quickly, stood on a pavement stone by the side of the road, and cast his gaze to the horizon, searching anxiously.What is there that day?Of course nothing.The describer got down from the stone decadently, meditating gloomily, and soon became enlightened again. The traffic on the road was like a stream, and the broken shed like an isolated island was trembling endlessly. 1993.6.15, Moon Lake