Moonlight with soup, gentle homesickness

"Hometown Thoughts" | text: translator

"The clock is moving, walking minute by minute"

/01/

Hometown is actually a kind of continuous thinking.

Because of the distance of the hometown. Many years have passed, ten years, twenty years, thirty years... Time drifts away in thoughts, slowly becoming distant, becoming dreams, becoming hazy and dim, becoming memories and imaginations.

Memories and imaginations are both thoughts, but they are the same different thoughts.

The hometown is the production of silk. When I was a child, I watched the silkworms at my uncle's house, a big change, bamboo woven up, round and strong, placed on a shelf made of wood, inside was full of silkworm babies, and fresh freshly picked mulberry leaves, silkworm babies kept nibbling on mulberry leaves, a large piece of watery green, there were white silkworm babies squirming in an arch, a mouth squeaked and nibbled on mulberry leaves, from the edge of the mulberry leaves a little bit to the middle, and in a short while a large piece of mulberry leaves was gnawed off, sometimes, two silkworms, The three silkworms nibbled on a mulberry leaf together, and soon nibbled a palm-sized mulberry leaf to the point where only one stem remained.

The aunt and the women in the team kept picking mulberry leaves from the mulberry tree field outside, and then distributed them into various plaques to satisfy the stomachs of the silkworm babies who ate huge amounts of food as if they were never filled... Until they grow up, spit silk, cocoon, and complete their short but arduous mission...

Silk is endless. A cocoon of silk seems to never be able to finish, and no one knows how long it is.

Thoughts, too.

/02/

The length of the thought is also because the hometown once gave too much, like the mulberry leaves fed to the silkworm baby, every day, every day, day, and night. In spring, whenever it doesn't rain, the aunt will sigh, alas—this is because when it doesn't rain, the leaves of the mulberry tree grow slowly.

But, because of its age, thought has become a unique illusion and a dream that only one knows, that cannot be told to others in order to seek sympathy and understanding, and therefore cannot be expressed in a language that is convincing to contemporary people.

The hometown in the illusion, the hometown in the dream, condenses all the beauty of the hometown, sincerity, calmness, warmth, kindness, kindness, kindness, care... All the most beautiful words, the most heartfelt sustenance, the most authentic pride, the most painful sorrow...

Implicitly, there are concerns.

In an era of change, in an era where idyllic beauty is turned everywhere into a toxic junkyard, worry is more convincing than a dream.

Thus, thought also becomes fear.

Thought, or fear, is in a historical context, under the inevitable trend of the times, placing an idyllic, fairytale-like, dreamlike wonderland, relentlessly placed in the midst of a change that seems to turn the world upside down, placed in the midst of all people who are completely unprepared, sudden, fleeting, historical opportunities and historical transmutations, thinking, becoming foggy and chaotic in the dazzling picture, emotional and intellectual entanglements, struggles, dreams and reality conflicts and collapses, thinking, like the filaments spitting out of a cocoon , as slender, as fragile, as long as ever.

But, thoughts, again and again, bring back to the present what seems to be ancient, dusty, dim, and oil-lampd pictures, which were once alive, real, real, though they have gone, have disappeared, have been buried in dust, have been completely covered by new pictures, and they exist only in the mind of a man, becoming a kind of mind that cannot be expressed in words, purely organic, stored in brain cells, unrepeatable, thinking.

At that time, unlike now, people had advanced cameras, DVs, tape recorders, which could keep everything, and at that time, there was nothing, only memory, two memories, perhaps the most unreliable, the most incomplete, the most inaccurate, but the vitality of memory was the strongest, because it would live in a person's mind for a long time, as long as he was alive.

In my thoughts, that old house, that little river, that stone bridge, that teahouse, that primary school, that nunnery, that clinic, and that pick that sells tofu brains, and the millions of blooming rain flowers on the river in spring, the violent typhoon in summer, the fields that sing in unison in autumn, the ice under the eaves in winter, the ice under the eaves... It is a treasure that can never be forgotten, that is never to be forgotten, that is forever cherished.

In thought, all those who die are still alive.

Those words are still as kind, kind, loving, and warm as they were just spoken.

Those figures, still as in the past, walked back and forth in front of their eyes, in the houses under the oil lamps, on the bluestone streets, on the fields covered with mulberry trees, on the edge of the small bamboo forest behind the houses, and when the boat passed under the bridge, the sound of the boat shouting, the iron tip of the penny when it was raised to the surface of the water flashed dazzlingly, the small steamer drove under the bridge, the choking smell of soot...

The clock is moving, walking minute by minute, unconsciously, decades have passed, thinking, becoming a very long silk, stretching, like someone tirelessly drawing silk from a cocoon, year after year, never tired, but also like the plaque full of silkworm babies eat mulberry leaves, day and night non-stop eating, never tired...

Silk is extending; thinking is also continuing.

Image source network, invasion and deletion

author

Pseudonym: Translator. Along the way, there is literature to accompany, fortunately also. Writing is not for a living, only for the joy of the heart.

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