snow
- Lu Yan
Beautiful snowflakes flew up. I haven't seen it in three years. Last year in Fujian, as if a little later than now, I also saw snow. But it was snow on the top of a mountain in the distance, not a flying snowflake. On the plains, it only happened to sprinkle down with the raindrops, not when it fell to the ground. Its color was gray, not white; its weight was like raindrops, and it did not fly. As soon as it reached the ground, it immediately melted into water, without a trace, without jumping, nor did it make a sound of a pawn, just like when the snow fell in Jiangsu and Zhejiang. Such snow, the elderly Fujian people who have seen it for the first time in forty years, can certainly feel a special meaning and talk about it with relish, but in me, it always feels so. "It's snowing in Fujian," I didn't think about it that way. I love the snowflakes of Shanghai flying in front of me. It is the "snow white" white, and it is also the beauty of the flower. It seemed to be lighter than air, and instead of falling from mid-air, it was swept up from the ground by air. Yet it is like a living creature, like a swarm of mosquitoes at dusk in the summer, like a bee in the honey season of spring, its busy flight, up or down, fast or slow, or clinging to the human body, or hugging into the window gap, as if it has its own will and purpose. It is silent. But as it flew, we seemed to hear the cries and footsteps of millions of horses, the rough waves of the sea, the roar of the forest, and sometimes the earnest whispers of lovers, the calm vespers of the chapel, the joyful birds of the garden... What it brings is gloomy and cold. But in its flying gesture, we see the loving mother, the soft lover, the lively child, the smiling flower, the warm sun, the silent sunset... It has no breath. But when it hit us, we seemed to smell the fresh air in the wilderness, the elegant orchids in the valley, the rich roses in the garden, the light jasmine... During the day it makes a thousand graceful gestures; at night it shines silvery, illuminating our passers-by, and on our glass windows it paints all sorts of flowers and trees, oblique, straight, crooked, upside down; and the river, the clouds of the sky...
Now, beautiful snowflakes are flying. I love it, I haven't seen it in three years. My liking is like that of an elderly Hokkien man who has seen it for the first time in forty years. But, like the old Fujianese, I think back to my life when it snowed in the past, and now the joy is like the snowflakes that have slipped into the window and fallen on my desk, gradually melting and disappearing at once.
I remember that one year in a friend's apartment in Beijing, around the fire, cooking the best cabbage and noodles in All of China, drinking wine, peeling peanuts, talking and laughing almost forgot to be in a foreign country; eating red, two people sang all the way, all the way to the squeaking snow, stumbling from the beginning of East Chang'an Avenue to the end of West Chang'an Avenue, and forgetting that it was the coldest time in a foreign land. Such a life, compared with today's one, can't help but make me feel confused. My friends in Shanghai were like factory machines, too busy to rest for a moment; and on a snowy day, they called me alone to watch over a house that would never be visited by anyone or by phone. What a lonely, lonely, tedious life it is.
"Not interesting!" I hear what I said about me today. Just as I said when I was in Fujian, to the old Fujian people who saw snow for the first time in forty years.
However, another one I appeared. He was enough to shoot proud eyes at me in beijing in the past. This me, when it snowed in Nanjing one year, once had a faster life: the snow fell very thickly, covering all the fields and roads. My lover and I walked in the wilderness. We can't discern the path, and we don't have the purpose of terminating. We only let our feet rejoice as we please. Our feet often rejoice in the deepest ditches. We didn't feel like it was wilderness, it was snowing. We felt as if we were in a garden, and the road was flat and soft. We don't feel a little cold because our hearts are hot.
"Not interesting!" I heard me say this to me in Nanjing to me in Beijing. Just as I said to me today in Beijing, just as I said to the old Fujian people in Fujian who saw snow for the first time in forty years.
However, I have a more proud me. This I have had a happier life, in my hometown: on a winter morning, when I stick my head out of the bed, feel the special cold, and see the skylight through the mosquito net is particularly dark, I first know that it is snowing outside. "The snow is falling, the tiger is dragging the lady..." This is the song I sing again and again as I lie in the bed and sing the snow. On other mornings, as usual, my mother and sister got up first, waited for them to cook, brought the stove, and warmed my clothes, pants, shoes, and socks for me, before I was willing to drill out of the bed, but on a snowy day, I had the greatest courage. I don't need a stove, snow is my stove. I twisted it into a ball, held it, and threw it. I piled it up as "a monk, and in its mouth, inserted a cigarette." I treat it like sugar and put it in my mouth. The thick snow on the ground was my carpet, and I was rolling and tumbling on it. It let out a smirk under me, and I answered with a laugh on it. My heart is one with it. I'm as soft as it is, as white as it is. I jumped with it everywhere, I flew with it everywhere. I stood outside the house, and I wished it would turn me into a snow monk. I lay on the ground willing it to cover me like a mother with a soft and beautiful quilt. I'm willing to fly with it in the air. I am willing to fall on people's shoulders with it. I want snow to be me, I am snow. I'm young. I have courage. I have the most precious life force. I don't know worries, I don't know sorrows and sorrows...
"No fun! You old man! "I heard the young me say this to the old me. As I proudly said to others in the past.
Yes, all the snowy days of life are compared to the snowy days of childhood, and the joy of the past and the present is like the snowflakes that have slipped into the window and fallen on my desk, gradually melting and disappearing at once.
But what about the poor man who stood in the corner of the house shivering or frozen in the snow, dressed in a torn single suit, what about the happy snow life of my childhood? This he said to me, "No meaning!" "Words?
And what would be the significance of this dead man, facing the Great Wall below zero at this time, holding a frozen machine gun, about to be shot like a snowflake by a shell? "Not interesting!" Who should say this?
Oh my God, I can't think about it anymore. There is no balance in the joys of the world, and there is no limit to the troubles of the world. There is no ultimate point in the world, and there is no end to mankind. Since I was born to be the me I am today, why should I pursue or stay with me other than the me of today? Although I am lonely and lonely guarding a house that no one or a telephone comes to visit, can I hide comfortably in the house and roast the fire to avoid the cold of the wind and snow, and I can quietly appreciate the world of the beauty of snowflakes flying through the glass, and the poet can also be complacent?
Capture reality. Only reality is the most precious.
The world of snowflakes flying in front of you is the most realistic reality.
Look! Beautiful snowflakes fluttering too. This is the snowflake I have been thinking about for three years and not being able to see.
Freedom, a good life is "Snow"
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