The world is asleep, where to go to find the one who speaks

"Even if the sky is raining" | text: Zen Fragrant Snow

"The world is asleep, where should I go to find someone to talk to?"

/01/

Just look back and I can see it. Even if the sky is drifting with rain, even if the mountain is heavy and silent, and the peaks of the mountain are full of stratus clouds, thick, like your low-hanging eyes, I can still see it. Just like that, lonely, gone for a long, long time.

I don't know where the road ahead leads, and my eyes are full of thorns, covering the uneven path. I tentatively stretched out my feet, bare ankles, bloodstained and scarred. I am so far away from you, so far away, how can you see my tears, flowing into a hidden river, and the night is bubbling. It is as if the wound in my heart is only related to the door and the placket of the clothes, and I dare to show you and show you.

This season, the rain is a pawn that shakes the flag and shouts, imitating your grim expression and pouring me cold from head to toe. I thickened my sweater and added another one, but I still couldn't resist the cold. I put on a thick down jacket, white, snow white, resisting the condensed skylight, eager to give an indifferent expression, a heavy punch, to get a little sunshine warmth, grass-colored anger, fancy laughter. Often, the effort is flowing water, and I will still be cold, cold to the bone. Even when the room had a stove on, even if the window glass was tightly closed, even though the sun occasionally flew over my window, I still held my arms and trembled.

Winter, when I mention this word, I shudder. Now it is the tender winter, and I am like a deep winter, shrinking my body, like a dead blade of grass, and I am overwhelmed. Blades of grass cling to the ground, deep and tight, absorbing the warm air of the earth and containing the energy of winter. In the spring, it straightens its waist, vivid into a flowing green, in the arms of the sun's light, unrestrained poetic rhyme. And me? I can only open a window and show you my lonely back, the thick rain stains, and the wet and scarred heart.

How long will it take to reach the harbor of displeasure and see the calm sea, or the sea that is not calm enough, without the slightest complaint. The sky is not old, the mountains are not old, only me, with a bleak face, alone to a lone lamp, looking at the rain and sighing. In this great earthly world, I have also left an imprint. Just like the floating eyes of yours, it has left me with the feeling under my eyes. When you look at me, I feel it, but I can't meet it, I'm afraid that the soft water will melt my frozen heart. When you turn your head, I look quietly. Just one look is enough to reminisce for the rest of your life. Enough is enough, I no longer pray for a reunion, or cut deeper. I like the nature and lightness of the fate, just like the Buddha seal, in the distance, I can smell a little sound, and it is enough.

/02/

That morning, the master of the bicycle, he stood in the gap of the autumn rain, stepping on the thick fallen leaves, rubbing his hands. The repair box has not been opened yet. The repair tools have not yet been laid out. The northwest wind was eerie, blowing with a sharp whistle. The fallen leaves left in the branches are scattered without svenness, like a deep drunkard, crooked from side to side, and where they fall, it does not matter. Just touch the ground and stop being ravaged.

Dressed in a smoky gray suit, the master stood in the cold wind and looked at the empty road. What he was thinking, what was he going to do. On sunny days, there are few customers. On such a rainy day, will someone come to repair the car? Perhaps, he didn't come here to fix the car. Perhaps, the warmth of the home can not withstand the wind and rain on the street. After all, this is the corner of the school's façade. Looking at the students coming and going and listening to the wet bells on campus should also be a different kind of enjoyment.

In the miserable red dust, one-sided people always have to seek a kind of dependence, support each other, and walk the road reserved for you by god. The car repair master, standing on the miserable street of autumn rain, is also looking for a kind of dependence. When I was a student, I went to school and had to walk along a long river. That canal was the longest road I could remember. I carried dry food on my back and walked on my legs, and I couldn't get to the end. In the autumn, the canals are overgrown with corn on both sides, which I call corn forests. There, there are hidden mysteries and unpredictable dangers.

On that rainy night, I walked with great trepidation. Rain was the manifest killer, step by step, pushing me to the brink of collapse. I had no choice but to move forward. Where are the shadows on the road? There were only shrubs, only brushed corn, only mud nests one foot deep and one foot shallow. I wanted to cry loudly, but my chest was tight, and I couldn't cry. When the footsteps of the morning glory people sounded, my soul was really out of my mind. Standing in the muddy water, I don't walk, and I don't walk. The morning glory man did not stop. The cows didn't stop either. They walked calmly. So, I followed. The rest of the road, even if the clothes were soaked, I didn't feel cold.

Did you know that loneliness is a stubborn disease in the depths of my soul? Are you lonely too? When the autumn rain is pouring, I try to blend myself into the deep soil, avoid the cold rain, and pray for a kind of solidity, a kind of dryness. But, years later, I discovered what a stupid and ridiculous idea it was. The rainfall that is increasing year by year is far beyond my imagination. The rain wet my protective clothing. It was like a magical detective, peeking into the secrets of my heart. It worked hard to go deeper, exposing me to broad daylight. I was given three minutes of sunshine, and another three hundred minutes of rain to see if I could withstand such a drenching rain and stand up to the end of my life to fulfill God's mission.

Unfortunately, my body, which has long been infected with mold, is from the outside in and cannot be cured. Those who were close, unable to stand such a smell of bacteria, left far away. Only I was left, alone, like a bare branch in winter, obliquely facing one side of the sun, counting the remaining warm memories, and surviving. More often, the memory is purple roots, branches growing pain, leaf veins with countless toxins, birds and finches do not fall, and milk geese dodge.

I tried to follow the tricycle selling tofu brains out of the dark alley. Because the man, playing the song on his mobile phone, repeatedly sang a lyric with him, singing the broken intestine and singing the broken intestine. What he sang was not the meaning of a broken intestine, but had the heart to sell the tofu brain. I don't know what song he sang or who sang it. However, the man who sells tofu brains, stands up, straightens up, pedals, is very focused, very hard. The rain, that's when it floated up. I could have ridden my bike, walked in front of him, and hurryed home. I finally gave up on that plan and followed his car lightly, keeping a distance of one meter.

The alleys in winter are dark and cold. Because of him, I don't feel lonely at all. I'd rather the rain drift into the collar than walk behind him, slowly, and listen to him sing aloud, singing about the broken intestines. After walking about half a mile, the alley had not yet come to an end, but he turned away. It seemed to have entered the house. There, there were thin lights. I suddenly felt that the black in front of me was the black that could not see the five fingers, accompanied by the unspeakable black sadness of the rainy night.

Have you ever seen that tonight, I am the only one left, and I am alone? The rain outside the window, endlessly underground. It was the most ruthless killer, using an invisible soft knife, forcing me to a narrow corner, facing the screen, saying these musty words. I couldn't help it, the sun would never shine in. One dark night after another surrounded me tightly. Even with the lights on, I can still see the ink-colored night, open the mouth of the fangs, devour the autumn grass that has fallen off the branches, swallow the dead trees that have lost their leaves, swallow all the living and inanimate matter, and satisfy my own greed.

At this moment, the world is asleep, where should I go to find someone to talk to? Who wants to give me an inch of space to hold my inexplicable loneliness and exhaustion? No voices. The Buddha said that the rain is in the rain, and people are outside of people. In this cold winter weather, even if it is raining, you can hold up an umbrella, stand by the side of the road, and warm yourself. Just like a master who repairs bicycles, even if he doesn't have to repair the car, he is willing to stand in the rain and see the road full of footprints...

Image source network, invasion and deletion

author

Pseudonym: Zen Xiangxue. In the night when Changming is absent, they can also get together, light up the fire of five thousand years, and snuggle up to each other for warmth.

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