春沙

一篇想写给太多人的文字

什么人打扰了你的梦吗？

谁知道呢——也许根本没人来过。

我在想，也许，我们可以重新睡去。虽然不会落入同一个梦境。

好，我们相拥睡去。虽然你的梦也不同于我的。

料峭北风飞扬着黄沙，错把它们当作娇嫩的春花。

花也非花，这末日一样的阴霾让我想起谁。名字并不重要。

黄沙掩蔽了朝阳，然后又淡漠落日，璀璨阳光折射于仓皇天地之间细碎的尘埃，尘埃颠覆了所有骄傲。当然还有怀念。

月光乳白色，夜正如水而月是水波深处轻轻的涟漪，它湿润了不羁的飞沙，也轻挑我的心弦。心弦是无端锦瑟。

天涯共此时。

天，涯。共，此，时。最宁谧也最疯狂，是此时也是彼时。我在，我不在，最简短的诗句最丰盛的文章。

风为裳水为佩，星光也不过是我想象。那些永远照不亮的角落最适合时间生长。

噼噼啪啪，游移的细胞演奏凄凉的交响，我在这静静的夜追随并且聆听你那不眠的心事。也许我听不懂，也许因为你从来不在说。你看着我给你看的，但你不思想我的思想。虽然我的思想终究也是你的。是的，思想，我使用了一个无法定义的术语，我看着你那伸展了100mv的纯粹而又优美的一跃，我想着谷氨酸和GABA在突出间隙里面纠缠纷争，想着多巴胺的倔强和5－羟色胺的沉郁。Na通道开启又关闭，钙离子上调或下调。线粒体活泼地呼吸，内质网辛勤地奔波。这就是思想，思想，细节总是让我们陶醉，却也一手造成所有的迷失。

有没有思想能够被思想，有没有看穿能够被看穿？有没有观察者不在的观察，有没有写作者不发出声音的写作？能不能编排一出没有爱人的爱情？能不能表演一个我不在的，我的世界？

呵，喃喃梦呓癫狂地游走，惊觉，我正百无聊赖地折叠着文字玩弄语言的游戏。我的思想重重的，可是最后都落在轻飘的语言上。有什么办法，语言就像生命里其它那些金光闪闪的东西一样，曾经多么渴望得到，终于捧在了双手却又发现实在没有什么用，只好拿来把玩。到了玩起来也无趣、哪怕看看都会生厌的时候，我们还可以把它赠与别人。知道吗，幸好我们会厌倦；因为真理虽多，却也不够人手一个——但愿我今夜挥手别过的真理明天又踏上新的流通。

经常告诫别人说，语言的力量从不在于表白，而是在于掩盖；唯一不被击败的办法，恐怕就是别去在乎真相。从学会说到学会不说，从学会笑到学会不笑，你的头要保持高昂。沧浪水浊，濯足尚且不堪，可是你不要把事实一一戳破。陪天真的人们笑，陪疯狂的人们闹，陪不知道何去何从的芸芸众生一起忘了生死的悲凉，因为先知虽已隐没可我们仍要手挽手穿过无边的汪洋。

对了，你们小时候听没听过一个笑话，说聪明人看见傻子在雨里散步，他没有打伞。聪明人说，傻子快走，下雨了。傻子说：你真傻，前面不也是雨么？

不要曲解了上天赋予你的所谓智慧，它只是帮你看清痛苦。从不是超渡。

漫漫黄沙粉碎了所有明亮，然后它又被夜色瓦解。其实夜并不是黑暗，夜只是遮掩了黑暗正如它遮掩光明。可是我想我们应当举杯相庆。如果绝望都不安静了，世上就真没有什么守望了；如果忧愁都不能让我欣赏，那才是彻底厌弃了人间。五花马，千金裘，其实忧愁并非万古，而至少这盏酒能让你我欢乐一刻。

萦萦笙歌抚琴的手，破碎酒杯零落的梦，额前一缕乱发总那么惹人爱怜。

夫复何求。

我只有一事相求，我说年年我的墓前要铺满火红的玫瑰花。

不要别的。梅的坚贞兰的高贵竹的清幽菊的淡雅，以及其它的伪善诸种，我们通通不要。生命既已消逝，决绝得仿似从未来过，所有眼泪欢乐不过都是做戏。

那时候我将躺着，听山林之间琅琅的风声；除了最纯洁的夕阳，我不会再为什么落泪。可是那不是阅尽人生之后无可挽留的倦怠，也不是沧海桑田所带来的纯真质朴。我知道，只有我自己知道，那只是再虚弱不过的自伤自怜。为了纪念那所有曾经属于我的纯洁和热烈，请记着，红色的玫瑰花。

好，就这样，我是一只白色的猫，轻踏在媚惑的红色花瓣上。别破坏这画面。

来，过来。在我身边坐下。

我坐了很久了，可是你并不说话。

因为我没什么可说。我只想坐着。

或许，你应当给我讲个故事。

故事？曾经有的，现在都忘了。

那现在有什么？

我不知道——也许——时光？

All those gone and to be gone

Coming back to Dorian Gray (2)

Time flies. Does it ever fly, or it is us who are running trough time? Life dominates. They say life dominates us, but similarly it’s highly likely it is us who choose life. To me, however, there should always be a third option, where time is time and ourselves are ourselves, to each other we seek, aim and approach, and then we touch and then away we break. All along, belonging may be just a fancy, a false consolation for those who dare not stare the truth of life in the face, and in fact what we do have is only momentary possessing plus long-lasting losing.

Now that we talk about losing, make sure you are aware what the object is. Do we regret more of the things we have done, or rather mourn over those we haven’t? Do we think twice of the words we have said and the promises we used to make, or rather ponder on the love we once spared and the lips we missed to kiss on? Is the dead lovable only because it is dead, and the past desirable only because it is the past? Frankly speaking, most of the time we’d better leave the thing as it was.

Have versus have-not, life versus death--truly enough there is something mysteriously charming about dialectics.  Would you say it is the giver who is giving, if the giver falls in love with giving but the receiver dreads of receiving? Would you say the liar is the one who is lying, if the one swallowing the bait is only pretending, and he might even take pleasure in pampering the naivety of the other? Roles could be switched during the game and thus, behold, there is selfishness in every unselfish love, just as it is the same beam of sunshine that gives us shadow as well as light.

Similarly, there exists some hidden flexibility in the thing we call cause-and-effect. I used to think it is kind of doom that a sad ending has been assigned beforehand to every beauty, but now I understand Wilde better. By the tragedy of love he meant that only love could make a death noble, and this nobility should always be a privilege of those who are beautiful.

By and by we began to loathe our beautiful Dorian, the arrogant boy who, with his perfect look and ever-blooming youth, never grew old – and thus never grew up at all. He was vain. He was indifferent. His lily-white hands were covered by unseen blood. Through pain we taste the feeling of happiness and through loss we come to cherish every trivial possession of our own; considering this, and then it is no wonder that this boy, deprived of the opportunity of being punished for a single sin that he had done, eventually learnt nothing by heart. Guided by wild desires and prompted by unchecked passions, he certainly succeeded in living a so-called true life of his own, but it was all too true to be loved. As to the portrait, well, obviously the portrait had a life of its own. There are times we find it much more lovable and pitiable (for loveliness and pitifulness are actually two descriptions of the same concept) than Dorian himself. Alas, a paradox of all the paradoxes, it is the lapse of time, who kills beauty with his own hands, that makes us aware of beauty’s existence.

I’ve always been in love with Henry; I love him far better than Dorian. No doubt this love is spotted by infinite fear and mingled, occasionally, by intrinsic detest; yet it is true love, in its purest form. Henry said he represented to Dorian all the beautiful sins he dreamed of having yet dared not doing, but, pray, didn’t he represent  those of mine, as well as every one else’s? By upsetting everything he avoided of being upset by anything, and by laughing at everybody he secured himself to be laughed at by nobody. The most charming thing about this utter cynicism was, above all, it came from nowhere. He had wealth and he had position; he had first-class carriages to drive on and a face that could make hundreds of thousands to fall in love with. Yet he claimed that he despised all, and by this ‘all’ he never excluded himself.

Sibyl, poor thing, she sung a graceful song, loved a dramatic love, and then died a poetic death. Dorian felt this death too refined to cry over, with which I quite agree. Life, when pushed to an extremely innocent form of existence, could not help fading into something dreamingly ethereal and unreal. Like cold, clear spring water wandering in a deep, deep valley, or soft, silent clouds drifting on a limpid sky, it makes your heart ache even to look at them. Yet all those easily appreciated tends to be things quickly forgotten, since thoughts and emotions are swiftly diffusive objects which are apt to fill in every tiny corner of space left by someone’s leaving, or perishing.

Basil, poor thing, to him Dorian was everything and to Dorian he was just one of the many nobodies. For someone who did not care him in the least he painted the most beautiful work in his whole life, with which he was to part the moment he finished the final touch. The picture was born to be wondered at, feared of, and finally locked up and concealed from daylight. When in the end all its elegance and decency, by Dorian’s sad death, were returned to it, Basil, the one and only worshiper, as well as creator, of this delicate artistic beauty, could no longer open his eyes to see.

All those gone and to be gone

Coming back to Dorian Gray (1)

With its cynical paradoxes and willful reproaches, and, above all, its shockingly evil plot, the Picture of Dorian Gray has always been labeled the darkest book ever produced in that old, conserved, solemn land of England.

Evil? Dark? It really gets beyond me. Why, I see morality everywhere and I smell nobility from beginning to end; as to conscience, yes there is conscience, shining too evidently between the lines; yet they say it is bad. The picture of Dorian Gray, the most elegant and exquisite picture in this world, was not a picture of a face. It drew the soul. By adoring our seemingly beautiful faces we become duller and shallower day by day, but what if there is a picture of soul for every one of us, making us aware all the mean and dirty going inside? Certainly when inside is out and outside turning in, there would be many scared. But not me. Never.

There is, however, an un-overlookable difference. I’m growing older. I can see it and I feel it. Seven years earlier when I first met Dorian, I appreciated him as something bright, inciting, mysterious and dangerous—kind of representing hope, and great possibilities about tomorrow. But now I feel myself looking down and holding out my hand; I almost feel my fingers stroking between my dear boy’s golden hairs. Indeed, to me Dorian is no longer what he used to be, I passed by a long time ago but on retrospect I still manage to discover the love from old days, buried deep but still blooming vividly.

Blooming, ah, this is a tricky word. Has anything ever bloomed? Is anything able to be blooming, and keep itself in that state for a while? See the spring flowers dancing in that gentle breeze, all fresh and full of life? The moment we burst into blossom is the moment we step up to withering, just as the first breath in this world begins our journey to the last.

Has it bloomed? Has anyone witnessed? Thousands of years later would anyone bother to ask?

Who knows.

Time, this obstinate joke, this ever-existing confusing variable. Exclude it and the puzzle of life should be easier to solve. Yet at the same time it could lose all its charming intrigues. Actually life has designed a story, as well as a set of scenes, for each one, and it also booked a seat as early as possible, in order to get us a better view.

If, I say if, if there exists, truly and sincerely, a thing we call destiny, I should reckon it setting into motion so many years earlier, back in that warm summer afternoon at Basil’s studio. A destiny for all the three, that is.

Had Henry changed Dorian’s life? Or it was Gray that changed Henry’s? Or there were some other things that dominated them all? What on earth did Basil put into the portrait, a soulless face, or a faceless soul? Did Dorian live a life borrowed from the portrait, or the portrait lived a life that was supposed to be Dorian’s? No matter what, it all began in that afternoon.

He who sets out is better off if he walks on.

He who understands once understands forever. No turning back. And no use of pretending. Between ignorance and sophistication lies too thin a line that every one is supposed to cross, and most of us land on the other side before we know.

So.

Squander, says the wise man, with all the bitterness as well as resolution. Squander the youth you grasp in your hand, as if it will never slip away. Squander the beauty you store in your heart, as if it will never die out. With a single jump, the most extreme skepticism could embrace all the glories of hedonism. Sure enough, if there is only one thing left to be trust, sensation is our most ideal candidate, since thoughts can never beat sensations, just as science cannot prove wrong any non-scientific beliefs.

After all, while not-knowing acts as a merciful happiness preserved for the idiots, it is ridiculous, notoriously ridiculous, to condemn the intellects’ deliberate forgetfulness as a sin.

Kind man perceives beauty in happiness, whereas wise man appreciates it through loss and sorrow. I categorize myself as the latter. May my heart quiver and sing, every time it is touched by sorrow. That’s the last thing I dare demand and the last hope I struggle to harbor. Dorian is smiling, what a handsome smile, but it is drenched with pale tears. And you could see it lingering on my lips.

乱舞

面向大海，春暖花开。一点阳光也不要浪费。瑟缩着越了冬的我的所有骄傲和张扬，装作它们也是温顺的苞蕾，伏在初醒的大地上静静吮吸着营养。

总觉得文字如水，而自己的心就像盆景假山里面那个盛水的小木桶；水满了桶就倾覆，桶覆了水就倾泄。一个人和他自己相处、交谈的时候其实不一定要仰仗文字，而事实上大多数人也确实没有用；所以不能不说我对于文字是有所偏执的——如果我至今仍有形成和把持某种偏执的能力的话——我简直愿望我的生活里四处跳动着诗样的对白。

据说优雅的心灵正如高贵的乐器，静置的时候当有不怒自威的仪态，而一阵他人所不能觉察的微风拂过却能带给它最美妙而丰盛的变化——的确，再没有什么比庄严和敏感更能够雕琢心灵的情态了，庄严能够使心不癫狂而敏感使心不愚笨，庄严教人不放荡而敏感又令他不会那么的无趣——高贵与否的问题尚可再论，不过这莺莺春风吹起的时候我可切实感觉到被触动了。所谓心弦，细如发丝而不绝如缕。

这和煦的阳光之下，一切人生都像尘土一样轻轻地被扬起、然后慢慢地被展开。是的，活过这不多也不少的二十几年之后，我逐渐开始觉得自己终于立在了人海的外面，看着各样的人生在眼前川流不息（偶尔会有个别，停下来，在我面前跳一支舞，或者讲个故事，我就穿过他们的眼睛看见了岁月的绸帐）。可是你知道我喜欢什么吗，其实最有戏剧性就是那些短发、微胖、皮肤稍黑、吃着零食并且相互交谈的初中女生。我看见了她们的笑我看见她们哭，笑容像阳光一样灿烂而泪珠儿也都是同一般的晶莹；我看见她们说着可说可不说的话她们去到一些其实也可以不去的地方，她们痛彻心扉地爱上一个人她们不动声色地浪掷了这如许的青春。Oh average girl, average story. 那句平淡的歌词始终不能让我流泪，却终于难以忘怀。

偶尔，是的，偶尔，我也会看到某个背影，持着一种平淡但是隐约觉得亲切的步态，无言进入我的视野，继而又无言地远去了。那时候我就总能触摸到记忆的形状，软软的，有点湿滑但是并不让人难过，像一条没有皮肤却能够行走的阿米巴。也有些时候某种鲜花、香水或者一根烟的味道淡然飘入我的鼻腔，这记忆就自嗅束攀援而上，在脑海里掀起未可预料的电波。

我笑着看看我自己，我白衣长裙，兴高采烈又心满意足地怀抱着空气。第一阵花香的激荡拨弄了神经好一番震颤，但下一阵春风吹起之前它早已平息。第一口可乐的欢畅沿着食道迅速下行，但它并不能持续那小小一个几百毫升的瓶子。胃肠一旦停止它虚空的绞动和苦痛的哀鸣，手里的蛋糕也就失了滋味。电影散场之后照例是人去楼空，没人记得爆米花的命运。你永远幻想但是永远得不到的那些誓言呀，它注定抛掷在空气就跌碎；而你希望盛开不败的那些阳光和春花，你难道真能目不转睛地仰望它一辈子？

衰变，衰变。衰变是万物的属性但它首先是你我的属性。

这些温柔又可怕的事情无时无刻不在发生，问题只在于你的眼光停留于何处。我们家那相貌奇诡而生性顽劣的老猫能够日复一日泰然地出入或者坐卧，它不知道什么叫寒冷、饥饿、或者生命的脆弱。而喧闹的街头每天都有无家可归的猫被车轮辗过，而每每实验的时候我也冷眼看着它们不明所以的呜咽然后死去。哪怕是那只我最喜欢的玩具猫，我都害怕在它身上看到时光的流逝，并因此而不敢太用力去爱它；我怕它肮脏、陈旧、残破或者丢失，我怕它漆黑的玻璃眼睛里不再有往日的神采——可是这多么可笑，我丢弃了多少曾经我应该爱的，那时候我的仁慈上哪里去了，而我又真正有多爱这些我现在爱的，这时候我的谦恭又在哪里呢？

谁曾是谁的谁，谁将是谁的谁？为什么我们不能杀死人类，就像我们杀死鱼虫、花鸟，和实验室的大白鼠？

因为有人会流泪。那实在是扯淡之极的一句话。

琉璃钟，琥珀浓，小槽酒滴真珠红。

转身，回眸，桃花乱落。

已换了人间。

时钟如剑，舞在太虚，平静的呼吸之外是怎样触目惊心的风生水起。Oh boy，时钟如剑它剑剑可都挑在我脆弱的心尖，我真想知道你是不是也有同样的张皇。

（最后，套用某位朋友的话来说，感谢你们，感谢你们没有因为我从来不写快乐的字就不来看我。是啊，感谢你们，即使痛苦并不是你们中的大多数人所真正需要的。）