The title of this issue
【Mission Release】Bookfish Literature Club Session 94: Respect for Freedom
Introduction
In your pen, the sun is shining, the roses are blooming, the air is full of sweet aromas, and he is still your teenager, playing the piano for you.
Your judgment is done, Father.
I am you, and the courtroom is your heart. You complete the self-whipping and redemption in the jump.
You laugh because you know:
You are free.
He is waiting for you in the next life.
Faust
Author: Wine Two Seven
Qualifier: The Afterglow Age
Father, the judgment of your life has begun.
Please take your seat in front, it's just you here.
It's a room of infinite circulation, and you look around and see all the great events of eternity. Thunder and lightning bloomed, rain and dew rushed, and the sun exploded with dazzling light. How obscurity leads to civilization, how the flame dispels darkness... Father, you can understand.
In front of you are chairs, canvases and paint. You are from a good background, educated in the nobility, and the paintings you sold to help the poor people were bought and collected by many nobles. Now you can draw anything you want to draw.
Please begin, Father.
You choose any window to fall down and get to where you are thinking. You may fracture, bleed, or rupture your liver. You will return to those moments that keep you in mind.
After the pain, you will still come here and finish your painting. Only the pain you suffer in order to return to a precious moment can be your paint.
It's nearly middle age, and the years have always treated you well, but overnight it has stained your sideburns with wind and frost. With your dark eyes hanging down, you brushed open the wide purple robe and jumped down calmly.
The sky, so far away, is like a high and long hymn. Did the chanting of the past insult the Ears of the Father? When the white pigeon takes off, can it cover this face?
Father, you have landed, your body is not as calm as your heart, it instinctively curls up. Your knees land on the ground first, then your elbows and chest. You don't know what's broken, and the pain makes you shiver involuntarily. Your blood trembled and flowed majestically, dyeing your purple robe a deep black. Flowers of Hell in full bloom.
You are so cruel to yourself that you choose the most distant and painful place for the first time, and it is so far away that your fall has many more scars. You stagger up, your handsome face still without a trace of expression.
***
You go back seventeen years.
It was a rainy night, and the flew together to hide under the house because of the thunder and lightning. Young you hold up an umbrella to see the devotees leave after the prayer. You hear the sounds of wild dogs fighting for food, so you go into the dark alley and take a look.
You find that the target of the wild dog contention is a basket. You drove the wild dog away, crouched down and looked at the basket, and inside it turned out to be a baby. Your heart is full of worry, such a small baby, such a cold rainy night. You quickly discarded the umbrella and picked up the baby.
Unfortunately, the baby is dead. You hold this innocent little angel close to your chest and pray for her to heaven.
But your back hurt suddenly, and you were hit with a hard object.
You look back and you see a teenager, grinning like a little wolf.
The little wolf cub waved his stick and said, putting her down.
You crouched down and looked at the teenager, across the pouring rain, and you said that she was gone.
The teenager picked up the baby and sat on his knees, howling and crying. You hold an umbrella for him, and you drape your snow-white robe over the dirty him. You accompany him in the rain in the dirt of the dark alley.
It's late at night, and you hold him tightly. He was so thin, so dirty, so pathetic. You take him back to church.
Father, are you scarred back seventeen years ago to see this scene? Your first meeting with him. Talk about beauty, why you can never forget.
Is it the dead baby, his helplessness, or the compassion of your young you who was shaken for the first time.
You're back here now, why are you still just watching, you have a chance to start over, don't you choose to change?
You could have given him food, given him some money, sent him away, and closed the door that destroyed you. But why are you standing, covered in blood, drenched in the heavy rain of seventeen years ago?
Father, the church bells are wafting, and do you still miss, miss, and cherish the beginning of all evil?
You still buried the baby with him the next day and prayed, did you still choose to hold this thorny orphan in your arms to comfort him, still feed him bread after being rejected, teach him to read and sing, and make him a suitable dress with your own hands?
Father, are you still willing to read the story of the Bible to him at night, still willing to explain him, to tell him that from now on you are his relative, to make him forget the sufferings that have passed, and to turn his heart toward the light?
Father, that is the abyss, and the path you have chosen is to bury yourself here.
Father, you are back in the judgment room. Your pain is like a monster, tearing your soul apart. You jumped and you were seriously injured, and you were still going on.
You bite your lower lip, allow yourself to steady your right hand, and you start painting.
You lay the ground color, and the surging paint betrays your heart.
Father, you have been the father's best spokesperson. You are handsome, gentle in your eyes, courteous, pious, kind, and have helped many homeless children and the elderly. You are of noble birth, your ancestors were once emperors, and your family has continued to live until the present world. You could have become a magnate, or a famous scholar and official. But you didn't.
Your pure good nature brought you back from studying abroad, and you brought back the fire of the Father. You lean down and care for those who are struggling in the mud. Originally, for a noble son like you, they were just ants under the iron hooves.
But you value them.
And he is the one of them that you cherish the most.
Father, your paintings are covered with the first layer of background color. You choose to be at this point, slowly walking to the window and jumping down again.
You cough up blood, bleeding inside your body, and they are forced to gush out of your esophagus and down the corners of your red mouth. You crawled and came back here in a daze.
It was a bright summer day. The sun shines in your loving garden. Roses scramble to open. Your boy has grown a lot taller—ah, he's so good-looking. When you picked him up, he was twelve, and he was dirty, thin and small, looking like more animals than humans. But you washed him clean and raised him for a year, and there was such a big change. Carrying a boxy school bag, wearing a clean shirt from a church school, and stepping on small black leather boots, he runs through your garden. He was followed by a yellow puppy, happily welcoming him back from school. You water the garden. He sees you, his eyes smiling into a crescent moon. His hair was shaved short, full of sunshine teenagers. He put away his bag, came out and took the shower from your hand, and he said, sir, I'll come!
You pick up the hoe and weed the roses, and he waters them carefully. Add color to every delicate rose. You talk to him in English and ask him what the school teaches today. He answered one by one, although English started late, only followed you for two years, but it was still fluent. He is very cute when he reads English, and he will read them out loud when he encounters undecided words. You have been humble and gentle since you were a child, and you think you are not so bold.
He said happily that after today's teaching, I participated in the rehearsal of the play.
You ask, what drama.
He said, Faust, sir, have you read Faust?
You laugh, you studied in england, you also participated in the same play.
At this moment, the boy looked out and saw you, Father, fifteen years later.
Your face is old, your sideburns are white, the corners of your mouth are bleeding, you are lying in the flower mud, and you are looking at you in the old time with pity.
How shocked you are, now you don't even open your eyes. Didn't you come here to see this ordinary day? Although no one understands what it is to look like, countless summers in the human world have passed like this, and they have been so long that there is no end. Is there anything it deserves to be nostalgic for?
Is it the rose that blooms just right, or the happy teenager, and the young you who was calm and happy at the time?
The boy stood up in horror and tried to lift you up.
But you have taken all your strength to dodge, and you have fallen into your beloved flower.
The teenager's footsteps were near, but they stopped again.
He said, sir, there are people there.
The young you held him and said firmly, No, there was no one there. At that time, you comforted him and said that it might be your puppy, or it could be a soul who passed by by accident.
The teenager nodded and continued to water the flowers.
Lying in the midst of the flowers, the dampness of the earth and the refreshing fragrance of the flowers make you crave it.
You're crying.
Father, your eyes reflect the summer sky, filled with tears...
Father, you are once again back in the courtroom, and once again you have filled in some color blocks for your paintings. And then you jump off again, and with all due respect, do you still have a good piece of meat on you? Are you still conscious of being in such pain?
This time the time you choose is close, just ten days after the garden meeting.
It was the day of the drama performance, and all the boys and girls were dressed up like characters in the picture book. The teenager you raised looks forward to this moment every day, and he looks forward to seeing you come to see him perform. He was so gifted that he could memorize complex and lengthy lines and bring them to life. Your teenager can't wait to show you how well he fits in school, that he's no longer from heaven and earth, that he's trying to become as elegant and noble as you.
The teenager looked forward to it from morning to night, but unfortunately, you missed his performance that year.
You are a beggar with scars, and you only dare to take advantage of the night to hide in a dark and distant corner to peek. Your teenage role as Faust is not at all like your interpretation. He is so innocent and pure, exploring the ideals and desires of life with his original heart. You are different, you have been carrying the burden of divinity all your life, waddling in dignity. He starts, sings, jumps...
Your applause melts into the wave of cheers from the audience. The teenager's eyes have been looking offstage. After many years, your guilt rushes out of your heart and turns into blood everywhere to make you a pain. The teenager's eyes ranged from longing to disappointment, and he waved his hand and bowed gracefully to the audience.
But you remember very clearly, when you picked him up after he was busy, the teenager didn't blame you at all. He just asked you how Ah Juan was? Sir you are not tired.
You were the same as you are now, saying sorry.
Ajuan was a prostitute, not knowing whose child she was pregnant with, and was thrown out of the brothel when she was about to give birth, and knelt in front of the church with nowhere to go. Ah Juan was not very old, she did not know much, she had only heard that churches and temples were the same, and if she was lucky, she would give a mouthful of food.
On that day Juan gave birth, the nuns in the church were helping. And you're in the UK with two degrees, one of which is medicine. Juan and the kids were fine.
But you don't want to mention this, you just want to apologize to your teenager.
From this night on, the teenager understood that you may not be able to meet his expectations forever. He's going to look farther, farther.
Father, what are you thinking when you look at your distant back? Do you understand that the twists of fate are actually the result of countless small swirls?
Father, you are back.
You go ahead and paint. The painting has begun to take shape. The people who suffered in the courtroom, no one had ever completed a complete painting, it was graffiti that penetrated the back of the paper, full of painful lines and color blocks.
And why can you be so calm? Your right hand has been fractured and deformed, leaning on your left hand to fill in the picture.
Father, you're jumping again, where will you go this time.
He grew up again.
He's about as tall as you. He took out a whole set of clothes from his bag, a format that you were completely unfamiliar with. You've only seen such clothes on the streets.
It's a military uniform.
You have a lingering feeling, because most of the young men in military uniforms you meet on the street never come back.
Did you say it was a military uniform?
Your teenager raised his furry chin and excitedly changed into a shirt and coat and hat in front of you. He asked you to take care of his generals. The first time you found out that the teenager had grown so fast, whizzing and tanning, it was a little strange. The teenager said sir, sir, is it good-looking? This is the school uniform.
He was going to a military school. It was his final idea. Your teenager is strong and kind. He received a good education and became a young man with a great idea. He said it was his dream.
You respect him, just as you also expected your dreams to be respected. And in those years of walking for your dreams, you have walked a long way alone.
For his sake, you have contacted the long-broken family and entrusted them to send your boy to the best military school.
In the summer in Shanghai, someone called for sugar porridge, and the teenager ran to buy two bowls, and he said he remembered that you loved to eat this.
He grew up and remembered a lot in his head. On the day of gardenia, he remembers buying some gardenia bunches, buying them from the women who walk the streets, and hanging them in your room. He said that gardenia looks elegant, the fragrance is rich and unbridled, and the mood is very good when you smell it, you like it.
The day you sent him to school, it rained again, like the day I first saw him. Life is similar, flowers blossom and fall, and the cycle begins.
Father, you are already blurred with flesh and blood, your consciousness is still faintly there, you are breathing heavily, only the smell of blood in your mouth.
Young you wear a plain robe, pray for your youth, and the sound of the voice is far away.
Broken you knelt outside the white wall and pretended not to look at you then.
You may have a hard time gathering the strength to get back, and this time I waited a long time for you to show up. You still struggle to continue drawing your picture, and then roll down to a night when.
You often accept confessions from others.
This is one of your duties. You've always spoken little, you just listen and give the confessor a sentence or two of enlightenment. You are not good at words, but you are very popular. Believers often feel that when you pray, your face is bathed in holy light, which is the embodiment of the Father.
In the midst of the chaos, suffering is even worse, and the number of confessors is numerous. Your heart is filled with all kinds of misery and sin in the world, and then you let them go. They are like a river, flowing through you, filtered and flowing far away. The filth is diluted by the pure goodness of you, and then reconciled with the Father.
And you were restless during that time, as if the devil lurking in the soul was instigated and nibbled on.
A difficult humanoid you, just stand in the distance and look at the confession room.
The confessional room is what you remember as it is, wooden, with a mantle separating each other. You know that you were behind the cloth and working hard.
There was a man in the confessional room, and he was standing, straight to the point, Father, I am guilty.
It's a very common opening statement that everyone is guilty of. So you were surprised and didn't say anything back.
The man went on to say, I am guilty.
Then you know he got down on his knees. His head rested against the thin walls of the wood, and then his hand reached into the mantle.
He said, I am unforgivable, I am in love with my brother, my relatives.
He was trembling, and even had some crying. At that time, your heart was gone, like a soul that had been temporarily borrowed. Not far away is the image of the God of the Father's Passion. You have taken refuge in your Lord since childhood, and it is difficult for you to bow your head and admit that you are also unforgivable.
But you did, and you took those hands that were so familiar to you. The teenager's hands are slender and bone-clear. Your hands are round and warm, and your hands are tightly wrapped around his. Your pity for him finally accumulated after many years to the point of flash floods, you can't restrain yourself, you can't believe that you really love him more than all beings in the world.
It is at this moment that you realize that you have sunk to the bottom of the abyss. You tremble and betray the Lord. Your teenager ripped open the confessional cloth and he kissed you.
At that time, you only had a fiery heat, and an overwhelming sense of guilt. Your teenager kisses you solemnly, and he offers trembling lips, soft and wet. His body has a little more breath that you don't know, and what kind of life he lives in military school, you don't know.
This should be the last time you dare to look back. Your life begins to be unbearable from here. But why are you insisting on coming back here and looking directly at your own sinful beginnings? Father, look at you, the Father's eyes are filled with a calm lament.
You kiss right in front of him, and then **.
You finally spoke, you said afterglow, I hurt you.
The boy accepts you completely, his body tight and jerky, moist and submissive in your gentle and sinful grinding. His height was moving too fast, and his figure was still a bit out of step. You remember that he used to shine white, and when he went to the military academy, he showed some wheat color. He twisted you, and you remembered how thin and small he had been as a child, but now he had grown into a military cadet, a young soldier.
The treble collided in the white light, and the swordsman's weapon was stained with blood. Your breath converged into a torrential rain, taken away by the river.
You know exactly how fate plays you, and you are Faust. In the vertigo of the wild dance, powerless to catch up with fate.
You hear the hymn in the midst of intense climax, far and wide, like a waterfall falling from the heavens to penetrate you.
"I'm going to get down on my knees and kneel down
Before your throne
I'm going to get down on my knees and kneel down
Let me enter into your glory, Lord
I want to live for you alone
Praise the glory glory..."
Father, how dare you listen to such a hymn, how dare you return to this moment. O your sin has devoured you. You should go to the bottom of hell and become a slave, never to see the sun.
But you are willing.
As long as he's all right.
The priest returns to the judgment chamber, and you no longer have the strength to go anywhere. Your fall shatters you. That's all there are to the colorful days of your life. O Priest, white-robed priest, holy priest, you should have gone to heaven to receive the father's gift. But when you look at yourself, you are covered in only bloodstained and painful memories.
What did you end up getting when you committed a heinous crime? Your missing young general? The love that your single-handedly raised child gave you as an adult?
You remember, but you don't dare to face it anymore. You don't dare to face you sending him out again and again. You don't dare to face the days when you expect him to reply, you don't dare to face him and say goodbye to you and then step into the military vehicle with a gun on your back, you don't dare to face him and go to Chongqing without a message...
After he left, the Rose Manor became an empty grave with barren grass.
The one who still preaches and accepts confessions is just the walking dead.
You did not dare to face the clothes and letters brought back by his comrades-in-arms.
It was a suicide note that had been written long ago, and he wrote, You are the love of my life, and I am willing to give everything for you. I want to protect you.
But he must first defend this devastated land, protect every sentient being you love. You see, the path he finally chose was the same as your young dream.
You taught him English, you taught him English drama, and he ended up quoting an ancient poem to give you—
At that time, I said goodbye to my sweetheart, and the mountains and rivers knew where to go.
Your eyes are tearful, and it is your sin that has brought him to punishment.
You look out the window, the snow used to be like a flower, and now the flowers are like snow.
You sorted out his whitewashed military uniform, and out of his chest pocket fell a yellow, dry gardenia. The afterglow is still there.
In the middle of the march, which similar village did he pass, and which similar spring did he encounter in the midst of gunfire? Did he pick up the gun and distract himself from thinking about you? Did he pluck a holy gardenia in the mud, bow his head and kiss it, and then solemnly put it in his heart?
Iron-boned erlang, remember those gentle chants? Fighting with the children of peasants, have you ever smelled the smell of gardenia raging?
How did your young soldier fall? In which shelling did he die? How did his blood water the land? Did he think of you, his eyes reflected in the sky?
Father, you grow old all night and then come and judge yourself.
The gift you have given you in the Afterglow Era is to revisit the memories related to him.
You have only one breath left and finish your painting. It was also the first person in thousands of years to be put on trial to complete a work.
Your brushstrokes are so peaceful and the colors are gentlely coordinated with each other. Finally you used your own blood to light lip color for him.
00
Comments section
1
Tutor ratings
B, the author's writing is very gorgeous, second-person writing, more like a "question" than a sense of substitution, the protagonists have a deep bond with each other, but the language is lost in the meandering flow, but weakens the feelings between each other, in other words, if it can be expressed with specific things, it may make people feel deeper.
2
Izumi ink language
The teacher's writing is unquestionable, but the second-person writing is really provocative, especially on this particular subject, which is a little difficult for the individual to resonate with - you love him, I know, and I am moved by it, but you regret and pain, and what do you have to do with me. And, trapped in love, how can you be counted as free if you are trapped in love and fleeing pain by death?
Author's reply: Every comment of Teacher Quan Yan is worth looking forward to, and I also like the teacher's discussion of the text. Respect for freedom may be, "Not free, rather than die", or perhaps to die in the hope of a freedom.
I don't mean to say that it is impossible to die for love, but if you die of pain, for the individual, it is not free than to die happily. Individuals think that if you regard this love that the other party cherishes as a sin, it is disrespectful to the other party and to yourself. This love is not wrong, it just has not been recognized.
3
Hold the piano
[You can't believe that you really love him more than all beings in the world.] When I saw this, my whole body got goosebumps. The wine teacher wrote so well that I could not express it concretely, and I could only dedicate my worthless tears when I looked back more and more. I don't know why this article shook my emotions, I had never been in contact with churches and priests, but I seemed to see the magnificent buildings and heard the songs of praise. It's really awesome.