Me and Ditan (1) (excerpt)

Shi Tiesheng?

If there's something I haven't said, Ditan, don't think I've forgotten. I haven't forgotten anything, but some things are only suitable for collection. Can't say, can't think, but can't forget. They can't become languages, they can't become languages, and once they become languages, they are no longer them. They are a hazy warmth and loneliness, a mature hope and despair, and their territory has only two places: the heart and the grave. For example, some stamps are used to send letters, while others are just for collection.

Now I am walking slowly in this garden with my bike, and I often feel that I have been playing alone for too long. One day I was sorting through old photo albums and saw a photo I took in this garden more than ten years ago-the young man was sitting in a wheelchair with an old cypress tree behind him and an ancient altar in the distance. I went to the garden to look for the tree. I searched according to the background in the photo and found it soon. I looked for it according to the shape of its branches in the photo and made sure it was it. But it is dead, and there is a vine with a thick bowl around it. One day, I met an old lady in this garden. She said, "Hello, are you still there?" She asked me, "How is your mother?" "Who are you?" "You don't remember me, but I remember you. Once your mother came here to see you, and she asked me if you saw a child rocking a wheelchair. ..... "Suddenly I feel that I have been playing alone in this world for too long. One night, I sat alone on the altar, covering an area of several hundred square meters, facing the sky. I can't see anyone who plays the suona, but the suona sings in the starry night sky, sometimes sad and cheerful, sometimes touching and sad. Perhaps it is inappropriate to use these words to describe it. I woke up awake and heard it in the past, now, at the end, now.

One day, I will hear someone calling me back.

At that time, you could imagine a child. He is tired of playing, but not enough. Many novel ideas in his mind can't wait until tomorrow. You can also imagine an old man, no doubt walking towards his resting place and working hard. You can also imagine a pair of lovers in love, saying "I don't want to leave you for a moment" to each other again and again, and saying "it's getting late" to each other again and again. It's getting late, but I don't want to leave you for a moment. After all, it is getting late.

I don't know if I want to go back. I can't say whether I want to or not, or it doesn't matter. I can't tell whether I am like that child, like that old man, or like a lover in love. Something like this: I am the three of them at the same time. When I came, I was a child. He had so many childish ideas that he cried and cried for leisure. As soon as he saw the world, he immediately became a desperate lover. For lovers, no matter how long it takes, it is fleeting. At that time, he knew that every step was actually on the way back to the cloud. When the morning glory first bloomed, the horn of the vulgar ceremony had already sounded.