Chapter 18 About - Seven Nights Snow Postscript

Cang Yue I have loved stories since I was a child. More often than not, however, I just enjoy hearing stories rather than telling them.Because when I shut my mouth, I feel full, but once I speak, when those words are scattered with the wind, I will wither like a short-lived epiphyllum. Until 2001, I touched the keyboard - when I typed the first word, the woman named "Cangyue" was born at my fingertips.Instead of me, she used Chinese characters to describe the stories in her heart, and through the virtual network, traveled through thousands of mountains and rivers, and conveyed them to the people at the other end.

Since then, I can finally talk about everything in silence. I'm not a genius, and I've never had any formal training in writing.For a long time, the only motivation that drives me to keep writing is just the desire to confide in my heart. It's like a girl standing in a sea of ​​people and sang the first sentence in a daze. She didn't think about how much applause she would win, but gradually some people around her would stop and listen.She felt happy, but also confused, and just wanted to try her best to sing better. ——But I gradually felt that only with the initial love and talent, what can be touched is limited after all.

In the five years after "Cangyue" was born, he also met many guides.In the initial lonely and bewildered days, those people who were both teachers and friends walked with me and kindly guided me from different angles, so that I could see wider and reach farther places. They planted seeds one after another in my heart, which gradually grew vigorously after a few years. The journey of writing has been long and divergent, and the city has been different for five years. Now when we are in the water poor, there are fewer and fewer people around us who can watch the clouds rise at the same time—however, that gratitude has never been forgotten.

On a snowy night many years later, when I typed this topic in front of the computer, the poem by Murong appeared in my mind—— "I know a tree full of flowers "From a single seed in the ice and snow." I have mentioned the rain in the south of the Yangtze River in many articles, but I rarely write about snow. For me who was born in the ancient city of eastern Zhejiang and moved to Hangzhou after the age of eighteen, my memory of snow in the past twenty years is really thin.Maybe it's because there are not many snowy days in the south of the Yangtze River, and the rainy season is often endless; maybe it's just because the body is weak, so I have always been afraid of the cold.

When I was a child, I often looked forward to a warm winter without snow.Unfortunately, I still often wake up in the middle of the night because of the cold, feeling cold below the knees, and can't sleep. The next day, I opened the door and went out. The vast expanse of white land was really clean. ——Snow, should it be a symbol of some kind of end? When I was a teenager, I thought secretly in my heart. In the winter of 2004, I was preparing my master's thesis in a rented room near the school, and at the same time entered a period of high productivity in writing. The house built in the 1980s was located on the top floor, without heating, and it was small and cramped. There were two computers in the small hall of less than four square meters, and the kitchen was on the balcony.We three girls crowded there and spent more than a year.

In the middle of the night, after my roommate fell asleep, I would make a cup of Guozhen, put on my earphones, and enter the world of my writing alone, letting everything outside me quietly recede.In the silent late night, I sat motionless in front of the computer, almost maintaining a posture, typing on the keyboard endlessly.It wasn't until the morning light revealed that he returned to the bedroom and closed the curtains, and fell asleep exhausted. When I opened my eyes, the sun had already set outside, and there was no one in the room. No shopping, no get-togethers, no parties, and even roommates who live together rarely get a chance to talk.

To me, life seems to exist on the other side of the mirror—the mirror reflects all kinds of hustle and bustle, bustling scenes, but I look at it from outside, and occasionally reach out to touch it, and what I touch is only the cold mirror surface. It's been a long time since such a lonely and peaceful day, and I've gotten used to it. ——Writing is a lonely thing.Just like the thorny bird must exchange blood for its singing voice, if it cannot get used to lonely people, it may be difficult to touch the world buried in its heart, right? At least, I think so. However, the winter of 2004 was unexpectedly cold, and several heavy snowfalls that had not been seen for many years suddenly fell.

The biggest snow fell in the middle of the night, silently.The temperature outside dropped sharply, but I was so dull that I didn't feel it. I was still wearing jeans and unlined clothes, typing quickly in front of the computer, and sat motionless until dawn.In the early morning, when I stood up, I suddenly lost my balance and fell heavily; then, I was horrified to find that my frozen knees could no longer bend or extend. The snow that time made my memory especially deep. ——The frostbite festered to the bone, leaving two scars on the right knee, round like two small eyes, and there will be a dull pain every time the temperature changes suddenly.In both spring and autumn, a thick blanket had to be laid on the knees before starting to code safely.

That is the imprint given to me by snow. After that I thought, I should re-enter the world around me and live like all my peers. Otherwise, this upside-down, solitary life would destroy me. What followed was graduation, a new job, a nine-to-five life, and a gradually regular schedule—I started my career as a practicing architect and gradually stopped writing late at night.In my spare time, I will go out, shopping in small shops by the West Lake, tasting in one restaurant after another, staring at the haze on the lake in a daze under the shade of willows, and hiding in a warm bed early on snowy nights Here, lazily flipping through books and listening to music...

Life has become a ticking clock, orderly, accurate, but mechanical. Everything seems to be as I want. But there was a kind of unwillingness in his heart.No!I should be a dream weaver, and my life should not be just like this-if the life that used to destroy my health, the life that I have now will only wither me. So, I let the desire to confide in my heart surge again, drowning me in my pocket. When I started to conceive this story, it was the Spring Festival of 2006. At that time, I was temporarily relieved from work, went back to my hometown for a vacation, and had a lot of leisure - I didn't like the excitement, and I didn't like to visit relatives and friends, so I held a chair like when I was a teenager, Lost in the garden at home alone.

The warm winter sun made me sleepy, but the fragments of those stories gradually emerged from the thin sunlight, erratically, as if waiting for me to reach out and catch them. At that moment, I decided to write a story about snow. The articles written when I was young are often sharp and full of sharp stinging pains. I would rather have a piece of jade than a tile, and never have the word "compromise".All the characters are so proud and decisive, if they cannot be completely obtained, they will be completely destroyed, and there is no room for flexibility between the two—such as "Listening to the Snow Tower", and another example. However, the theme of Qiyexue is compromise and abandonment. In this story, there is no heart-piercing fierce conflict, but only dull and deep pain and powerlessness after relief.Everyone came wading from the river of the past, carrying different memories, their fates were entangled, but in the end they could give up each other and be free from each other—Xue Ziye gave up Xuehuai, Huo Zhanbai gave up Qiu Shuiyin, Yami gave up the teaching king... They have all flowed through the river of time and walked to the other side. ——Only the lonely narrator was left standing there, staring blankly at the backs of these people disappearing into the mist of time and space.It's like looking at your own body. I once went to the peak to see the bright moon, and occasionally opened the sky to look at the world of mortals. Poor body is a person in the eyes. Using literature as a mirror, one can know oneself—it turns out that my state of mind has quietly changed in the past five years. I am not ashamed of my youthful sharpness when I was young, nor am I sorry for my restraint and forbearance now—because I know that when I look back five years from now, I will definitely find all kinds of unsatisfactory things. People always have to go through such repeated cycles of tempering before they can grow and rise slowly. So, readers who have been with me for five years, are you also growing up in the same way? When I was talking alone in front of the computer late at night, thank you for listening; when I delayed the manuscript due to various difficulties in life, thank you for waiting patiently and never leaving.And I will always accompany you until you graduate, work, get married, have children, grow old... until you forget me :) 2006-8-24 in Hangzhou