"Fire Student Wang Xirui": The experience of the art exam forced me to start to re-examine myself

/ Preface /

"September to August" is the time when I decided to go to the Beijing Art Examination to start writing this article, which is a retrospective of time, and the theme of this time period is to clarify the thoughts in this stage of growth. Before September, going to and from school normally, completing homework was still my daily routine, and in the period from September to August, the experiences forced me to start re-examining the eighteen years of my late life—I think this is what art tested for me—in a fragmented way, completely abandoning the original rhythm of life and facing those life experiences of fear, remorse, joy, and blood.

The original name of "September to August" was "Intracranial Empire", which was named after David Lynch's "Inland Empire", the original plan was to describe the quarrel of various ideas in the brain during the period of art examination, and from September onwards, it would consciously create some short poems to preserve their ideas, and this "September to August" was composed of fifteen short poems created during this period. At the beginning of August, after reading "The Autumn of the Patriarch", I had a great influence on me, and my ideas on the creation of "Intracranial Empire" also changed, the most important point of which was that since we wanted to analyze ourselves, we should discuss ourselves as the only other, and to achieve this, the objective existence of the other should be expressed from the perspective of "me". This idea has made the foundation of the creation of "September to August", the "he" in the text can be regarded as "self", and "I" can be regarded as an existence other than "self", "original self", "superego", family, "teacher", "classmate", "a gust of wind", "a yellow oriole", "a vulture", on this basis, the prototype of "September to August" is roughly completed.

Coinciding with the completion of the week of "Bliss Disco", there is a new understanding of the self-perception, so the idea of "September to August" in the creation has gradually improved, since this article explores my "intracranial happening", the absolute objective truth is impossible, so "September to August" from the original record, began to develop in the direction of fantasy, memory, and writing. In September to August, August is the past of September, and at the same time the future of September, in this retrospective of time, the past and the future happen at the same time, and it is these experiences that have not happened or have happened that shape the present me. This is the complete meaning of this writing.

/ Wang Xirui Certificate of Conformity /

The official website of the Fire Art Examination - Intensive Training School Examination | Online courses are | for provincial examinations Focus on the | of the art examination of famous schools Adhere to elite education

*Article Description:

This article is not typed in segments according to the author's request.

In order to respect the wishes of the original authors, the original format and writing style are retained,

in order to present the reading experience expected by the author,

That is, "the feeling of exertion and suffocation that echoes the pain and confusion of growing up".

/ This is his story, but it is also the story of thousands of art test takers /

September, like the prophecy of every passing but not yet yet coming August, a flock of sparrows leaps under the windless sun, pecking at the souls of dead companions, my cheerful souls, my sinful souls, trampling the souls of companions with a light dance on any September trembling from the heat wave, perhaps in a windless September a thousand years ago, we jumped together in the scorching sun with our flesh and blood blurred souls, but perhaps a thousand years later it was our eternal first meeting. I stomped on the flesh-and-blood blurred souls of my dear companions, and countless souls of my who had never met before rushed to me, and we stumbled into that room, the only cold room in September, a room in which broken souls roared, and the room in which countless dying souls belonging to us fled in all directions. In the wilderness of zero degrees, the broken soul poured out the poems he had written in a hoarse voice, and he sang the barrier between him and the wind, and the cold that could not be eliminated even by the heat that existed all time. With mosquito nets, glass, and iron railings, he was imprisoned in a cold wave, and his sense of touch, hearing, smell, and taste could not feel the presence of the wind, the presence of me, but he told me that he saw me, and outside the iron railing of the window sill, he felt that my soul was breathing, and felt the existence of freedom in the world. It may have come from the heat wave of revolution after revolution, and in Rewashaw's dream he spoke of the only truth he felt, and he told me gratitude, that he felt my soul scratching his skin, that he smelled the scent of the weeds mixed with the earth after the rain, and that the salty and wet smell of the sea water brought by the wind, the apparitions produced by my soul lingered in his mind, and he poured out everything about the ancient reptiles, and how much effort he had made to make him give up thinking. When the fields of nothingness encroach on the sky, the rocks turn into clouds, the blue sky transforms into the earth, a new universe is slowly expanding in the countless black holes of the universe, when the entropy values return from infinity to zero, and from zero to infinite, countless dead souls realize that the world after death is new, and after the new birth, there is only death, only the broken soul cries for freedom under the illusion of freedom, turning a deaf ear to other existing souls. Our soul, our wandering soul wanders in his reality and dreams, wandering in his existence and nothingness, just as the reincarnation prophesied by the three hundred and eighty-four masters a thousand years ago, his broken soul in the same September of the next life, still singing the illusion of freedom endlessly, with the only remaining enthusiasm of his life to carry a freedom that we all lament. His soul radiates heat, and this heat loudly shouts change and division, just as every dreamer in the revolutionary era made a decision, and his soul vents the illusion of freedom, forcing him to be separated from the past, from all our souls. In the light and shadow of the twilight of the last day, his cheeks are soaked with wine stubble, and the incongruous proportions of his body can not see the traces of the past, and he will wonder whether one of the September apparitions of the previous life is real, and whether the same September of the next life still exists. In October, in the midst of the performance of the Independent March, under the cover of all the high emotions, he fled with the broken soul after the cover, and the land that had provided for him to grow up, and the haze in the strange wasteland infinitely magnified his emotions, a city with forty million wandering souls, the stirring between forty million different souls resounded in the sleepless dreams that belonged to him alone, when a soul saw a huge base of souls colliding around, forty million of the same suffering could not alleviate the small sighs of his own soul, he took the soul from others, The information stolen from our souls is compiled into poetry and sung loudly in countless dreams that cannot distinguish between illusion and reality, and the naked and skinny boy sees himself in the TV, triangles, squares, framed compositions, Hitchcock zooms, and the boy covers his head and is framed. The world in the television shows the reflection of the world outside the television, and prophesied, the next action becomes the next picture of the television. The cycle of time constantly reminds me how the world is endless, sinking on the borders of dreams, driving a sad sunset, swimming from this end to the next, with no end, no beginning. When his broken soul awoke from his dream, the pain of the hangover squeezed out every active cell in his body, he sang parting, praised the revelry, vented his freedom, decorated his broken and lonely soul with a mask woven by the hangover, and sang until after the revelry, when everyone was gone. Old Xia closed the door, and the loneliness of being in another country rushed to me. Without the excitement of twenty days ago, those cries of freedom, there was exhaustion and emptiness. In the cramped room, with cheap nude photos hanging on the wall, the screen of my mobile phone, was my only light. He roared with all his might, roaring out of the nothingness of the moment, and in the no-man's room, he picked up the little residue left by the carnival feast. Driven by tiredness and loss, the empty eyes gaze at the nude photos on the walls of the cheap rental houses, the same cheap carcasses, scratching their heads to show the souls as cheap as him, the noble jade body of thousands of years ago, under the torment of time and time, has become a cheap art that has been criticized under the excess of science and technology. The layers of gaze humiliated my soul, and his regret only made it worse. Two cheap souls feel sorry for each other in the midst of multiplication of suffering, thousands of cheap souls pray for liberation in constant complaint, and just as they repent of the sins they have committed against each other, hoping to end their vulgar lives through common baptism, the cycle of time will once again warn of how incomprehensible their efforts are, that the empty soul can only live forever in nothingness, and that nobility is the nobility of the strong. So he sang of his own pain, hissing with a song of doubt, wailing among all the souls as cheap and broken as he was, singing of his fears, of all his ambitions and of all the feathers of the earth. Like all souls who have experienced tremors, he worries about the future that is about to pass away, and he fears that even if he tries his best to be noble, the cheap soul will still be cheap, but what frightens him even more is how much the cheap soul makes him sympathetic and pity him. His mind began to split, like a virus that resided in his soul, torn apart by the torture of five horses, and those who escaped became part of us, my dear companion, my flesh-and-blood companion, while the remaining small part was stubbornly resisting, cursing the cheapness of his soul in the endless years, and the wave of invective aroused the participation of all the equally broken souls. In the midst of the surging curses, the curses implied the words of victory, the golden glory, the cheap glory that belonged to them. So we can hear him singing again, he sings, I'm going to go back to the mountains, watch movies, have sex, photography, performance art, live, die, pursue life. In November, when the mask of the city began to fall off, and all the souls lurking in it revealed a familiar face, a huge skinning game that could accommodate more complex capital transactions with only a slight change in data, the initial discomfort was diluted by repeated and vague familiarity, and he saw the same flock of sparrows passing through the haze over the city, pecking at the remains of prehistoric creatures, and more pigeons wandering around, and the phantom reflections of those vultures waiting to peck at our dead souls, perhaps the next millennium His soul will also be pecked at by unnamed chicks as a prehistoric creature, so that for him his soul can reach immortality and enter eternal reincarnation after a hundred thousand years. He tried to numb himself with all the imperceptities so that he could ignore the redundancy of the city, but the part of his body that could not yield to the soul, riding on his moments of hesitation, occupied all his body and mind, and sang the vastness of the city in place of his other thoughts. They sang in chorus, the city is very large, the resources are large, the subway is large, the ambition is great, they use the lowest words to tell their inner sorrow, vent the voices that they never dare to express on the public platform, and scold their own sadness over and over again, and the vulgar words burst out of his brain, seizing the only oxygen in his brain that he could not breathe. The haze wrapped in clouds brings depression to the city. Legend has it that only by standing at the highest point of the city's highest overpass can you see a cloud of fire burning to red through the fog, it seems that the mirror reflects the burning clouds of all cities, and also reflects the lives of all people, he looks at the instant expansion of himself under the mirror, as if he sees the fleeting future in the manual of the god of destiny, he sighs, gets up from the stool, in the mirror, the sweater is swollen, as if he has insight into his own body, the world is clear, the people are trained, the world is sophisticated, and the calendar is smooth. With these known but never-to-be-used weapons, the deserter fled the battlefield, and fled back to the land where he was born, and at the moment he left his homeland, his box had been opened, and on the afternoon of September when he decided to pursue the so-called freedom, the milk that conceived him had begun to emit a foul smell, and when he stood again on the land, he found that the illusion of freedom could never be seen, and he had only created for himself a future that could never be indulged in the past. In December, the pure clouds and rain of the homeland made him let down his guard, the warm sun of winter with the traces carved in his blood from birth made him feel that everything was simple and direct, the simplicity engraved in the mystery could make him feel the warmth of maternal love even if it was just an illusion flowing in the feelings, the immeasurable light emitted by my mother covered up the fear and scars that had previously remained in his heart, but under the illumination of this warm sun, fate revealed to him the eternal truth, and the hordes of Garou Luo in the sky recited the prophecies of God's blessings again and again. Preparation is easy to suffer, common is not doubtful, preparation is easy to suffer, common is not doubtful. What followed was the frost of winter hitting his defenseless naked body, the waves of fear pouring out of the deepest sea of his heart, the fierce air obscuring all the warmth released by my mother, he listened to the sorrow of the Almighty Youth Inn over and over again, in the moment of emotional collapse it was both gratitude and hatred, when the faint melody sounded, more inextricable pain reflected the nature of his masochism, and the sadness changed from untouchable pain to complete tearing. But the pool of blood left by the tear made him more comfortable, because this defensive posture was the reality after the bubble was punctured, and alienation and isolation were his most real state of existence. In January, he imagined himself as Attilulfo, re-embarking on the journey with the armor he had forged through months of experience, the image of a knight attached to his mind, the majestic posture of the imaginary January supporting him to pretend to be strong and pretending to be a perfect soul, the snow white and polished solid armor was a disguise that he would not fade, but in the night when the knight and Priscilla were tied up, when the knight also let down his guard, he had to escape into the cinema on the sixth floor of the corner, to be immersed in the only suitable darkness. That unique darkness lasted for two nights, and he composed that night into poetry, and sang alone in a silent and uninhabited dream in August, and he sang, the first night, the birthday, my father sat in the dark cinema hall, and in front of me was the autumn falling leaves, the realm of self-forgetfulness, I cried incessantly, turned sideways, tried my best to cover up, the corner of the cramped, the narrow seat, I don't know if all this is in the eyes of my father, my father only said that the movie was beautiful, and I was speechless. The second night, at the beginning of the eighteenth reincarnation, the girl sat next to her, unaware of her intentions, on a whim. The same darkness, the same fallen leaves, next to it was a whisper of sobs, and as far as the afterglow was concerned, the girl took up the mask and hid the beauty in the mask. Thinking of my father last night, it may be sentimental, it may be powerless. The darkness of the auditorium disappeared, people left one after another, and she asked me with tears, crying? I replied no, not knowing whether sentimentality again counts as tears. I fantasized that my heart was crying, but I never shed a tear. It was only at that moment that I wanted to protect her. The fragmentary memories made it impossible for him to weave all the words, only the end of the note, the back of the torn page, wrote, a night of strings, tonight alone, sinful, unforgettable, countless times in the mind looking back, kissing, kissing, caressing, caressing. He uses the film to heal and find his salvation in the moments of love, the figure of the knight quietly leaves, the illusionary armor is gone, and he understands that what is in the shell like all souls is the most real self. For a person whose faith has collapsed, he naturally cannot believe his loyalty to love, but the secretion of pheromone reminds him of a life that he seemed to experience for a short time in a hundred and twenty minutes many years ago, that moment that was now illusory, the faith he picked up for the first time in his memory, in the dark night of his advance, countless faiths mixed with the fucking world added light to that night, he had many faiths, but also because of that light, he lost all faith. Counting the days from February to June, he did not sing in the dream, but recorded a brief resonance of all his souls in the message book, like a licking dog in the exam, really disgusting, but this time different from before, his split soul gradually merged, which was a co-vibration of his whole soul. A new value orientation gradually soothed their emotions, and during this time, except for a few brief and joyful madnesses, the rest only made him feel normal, and the obedience of September had returned in full, and the tearing of the soul seemed to have been soothed, although only he knew that everything that the soul had experienced had burned the mark of a tamer on the surface of his skin, and an Alden warhorse that was still to be forged had been dragged to the cowboy's stable, and every vibration of the soul would turn into a tough rein to conquer the wild horse of consciousness. He could feel that this vigorous power came from the beating heart in his chest cavity again and again, and he remembered that on the first night he came to the world eighteen years ago, the first vibration produced by the heart became his first mark in the world, and the energy generated by the sound wave completed one mark after another on the beating heart that followed, and it was because of this uninterrupted beating for eighteen years that eighteen years later, he could sing with his soul today. In July, the collapse of faith, the rupture of values, in an absurd world, he has nothing, that long road, the back of a person who looks at the lonely moon, a heart that is still beating, a soul that is no longer broken. He would still sing with his soul, accusing him of not knowing how to shape himself, they sang, in order to adapt to society, what will I become? The society they talk about, I never understood. That man in the world of oil, I don't know. So is the choice wrong? No, at least at this stage, relatively true. The future, the unknown unknown, curious and curious. Those doubts and confusions sometimes flicker in his consciousness, like comets traveling through multiple time and space, for humans living on earth, even if their thoughts fluctuate slightly, they will not produce fear of the earth's imminent destruction, and the only thing left is curiosity and confusion about the unknown. He has also despised his soul more than seven times, when he went with the tide, when he chose to ignore the injustices of the world, when he was in a dilemma and gave up his choice countless times, when he abandoned his partner in the process of moving forward, when he reprimanded himself in every reflection and reconstruction, when he looked back at the past with a thin heart, when he accepted his selfishness and greed, he chose to do childish actions in a posture that did not understand the world, to remind the people around him how he did not understand the world, he tried not to let others understand. He understood that he should understand that even though he knew that it was only a brief period of self-deception, he could find a moment of peace in that short-lived self-deception. He chose to use his own way, not to care about pretending, imitating, plagiarizing, and made a complete clay sculpture for himself, only to retain the integrity of the soul, the wisp of the soul that was already broken, and now he put down everything to protect it from harm. In August, the family's genetic history broke into his life like fate, a sudden lung disease dragged down his body, each cough gushed out a foul smelling mucus from the deepest part of his lungs, his consciousness closed his thoughts, stopped all the extra work of bodily functions, and in the day-to-day coughing and panting, he saw the stars appear in the day, the red sun blooming in the night, the confused and blurred world, the purgatory in which he was now living. His family searched for a doctor for him, and in the days of mixing capsules, powder, and cephalosporin needles, the mucus he coughed up over and over again foreshadowed all this futility, and in the vague dreams of day and night, his family invited him the physician of his childhood, and in the vague illusion of light and shadow, the pungent but familiar liquid was poured into his brain along the wings of his nose, and in the waking and illusory reality, he saw the apparition of the child, the physician who took care of him from childhood, and in the faint he heard the doctor whisper to him. Telling the story of his childhood, the boy who described his dreams in the sickbed many years ago seemed to be sleeping next to him and on his soul at the moment, and perhaps in the same August of the next millennium, there was also an eight-year-old boy, lying on the sickbed, telling the doctor about his big dream.