Anchor read the classic, accompany you to say goodnight, hello everyone, here is lightning night reading, I am Wucheng rong media anchor Shao Liwei, tonight and you share the article is Feng Jicai's "Time".
At the end of the year, I enter a unique atmosphere here. Busy on weekdays, I only feel the urgency of time, and it is difficult to feel the existence of "time". Time belongs to reality, time belongs to life.
However, at the end of the year, the feeling of time suddenly appeared. It is short, limited, and impatient, and you chase it behind you, but you can never catch its fluttering clothes. It also flew towards the end of the year. When you really surpass it, the years have passed, and a large part of the time will remain in the past years.
Tonight there was a sudden power outage and candles lit in the dark. Candlelight is like a bud of light, quietly floating in the dark space; there is no wind in the room, this bud of light is particularly elegant and beautiful; a little light is scattered, vaguely outlining the surrounding things. There is no music without electricity, but I have a better companion than music – thinking.
But the most enlightened about life is not the thinker, but the general public. For example, in the popular saying, the days near the end of the year are called "the roots of the year", how real and image! It makes us suddenly realize that a tree of the years, which was originally full of greenery, has been consumed by us, and only a little root remains. Time is so urgent, tight and deep...
Suddenly, images of the things that had been experienced in a year were all stacked on top of each other. No matter how complicated, helpless and abrupt these things are. I wanted to find my own foot marks in them. Which footprints are still clear today, and which footprints are obscure or even erased by time?
I stared at the heavy black shadow in front of me and looked hard. Just at the end of the candlelight, I suddenly saw a pair of eyes facing me. The eyes were cold and sharp, forcing the gaze to come. This was originally a wood-carved statue of the Northern Song Dynasty Heavenly King that I put there. At this moment, however, his gaze became extremely powerful. Why did it pass through the thick fog of night, through the long eight hundred years, and look at anyone who dared to glance at him with a sharp and torturous look?
Apparently, it was because of the extraordinary ability and extraordinary talent of the unknown folk carver eight hundred years ago; he also injected a masculine and evil spirit into it. Now the nameless carver is long gone, but his shocking spirit of life has been preserved.
Isn't time gone by here?
The plant dies and leaves its life in the seed; the poet goes and leaves his life in the verses. Time for people is actually the process of life. When life comes to an end, it does not necessarily disappear without a trace, and sometimes it will transform into another form of existence or regeneration.
Doesn't the transformation of the life of mother and son continue the whole of humanity? The reconstruction of life is the greatest miracle of life. Among them, artists should be the happiest. Only they can use their lives to recreate a new life. Novelists recreate characters passed down from generation to generation, composers recreate fascinating and everlasting souls that they can hear.
At this moment, my eyes are shining, the field of vision is wide, and all the artistic treasures in the room are presented little by little.
In fact, my clearest and deepest footprints should be the two shallow pits on the cement floor under the desk that were ground by my own feet. My time will not disappear until it is settled here, and I am transformed into lines of text that will never fade.
Yet how much time in a year I throw myself into the dust or pay for all sorts of fleeting illusory social scenes. Even sometimes the time that belongs to oneself becomes a gift from others. Review the characters you've created and measure how long they live. The life of an artist is measured by the life of his art. Every artist has the potential to reach eternity, and the only thing that can be abandoned is himself. Isn't it?
I was confronted by the Song Dynasty King, staring at me, waiting for me to answer.
I was speechless, embarrassed to the point of embarrassment.
Suddenly, the electricity came, and the lights were bright, as if changing the heavens and the earth. The vast and far-reaching world of thought just now was suddenly gone, and only the candle flame burned itself in the air, which seemed superfluous. Looking at the statue of the Heavenly King of the Song Dynasty, it seems to have changed its spirit in the light, and it is no longer so aggressive.
I don't have to answer him either, because I've already answered myself.
About the Author
Feng Jicai, born on February 9, 1942 in Tianjin, is a contemporary Chinese writer, painter and social activist.
Streamer profile
Shao Liwei is a news anchor at Wucheng Rong Media Center.
Lightning News reporter Fei Yanni reported