At that time, Xue Tao sang with Yuan Zhen, Bai Juyi, Du Mu, Liu Yuxi and others, and made a small note of safflower with exquisite hibiscus skin and hibiscus flower juice as raw materials and elegant Huanhuaxi as the background. Although the color of Xue Tao's notes is only dark red, the colors and patterns are exquisite and beautiful. In the history of China literature, they are romantic writers, which is a beautiful topic. The present stationery is neither made in Xue Tao nor made by hand. If it is colorful, it is not inferior to the ancients. So, I picked up a pen and licked it, and wrote a few lines at will. I feel that the pen is following my heart, and it feels like a few notes. Even the calligraphy that was unpopular in the past seems to be inspired by some kind today. The breeze blows on the face and the pen fluctuates. I just finished writing the header, but I can't find the corresponding envelope and I don't know who to send it to. "Although Mengshan is here, it is hard to believe the brocade book", which makes me hesitate with the stationery and can't help but be speechless.
How long has it been since I wrote? I even doubt whether I have written or sent a letter. The more I feel uneasy about this fast pace, the more I miss the old days. The touching song Once upon a time was slow: "Once upon a time, the sun changed slowly, and the mail was slow, so I only loved one person in my life."
This reminds me of Wang Xizhi's famous sentence, "How can I say anything when I compare with others?" This is a letter written by Wang Xizhi to Yizhou's good friend Zhou Fu in his later years, which is included in Seventeen Posts. The full text is as follows:
It's been 26 years since I took the first step, but now I don't understand. Save the first two books, but add a sigh. The snow is freezing, and it has not happened for fifty years. I want to come between summer and autumn as usual, or I can ask my ears first. Not if you are longer than others.
It's been 26 years since I left you. Although we exchange a letter or two once in a while, how can this relieve us of our great yearning for each other? Not long ago, I received two letters from you one after another, only adding some sighs. Tonight, the snow is cold, which has never happened in the past 50 years. I miss you more at this moment. I hope to hear from you next summer and autumn. I don't have such a long feeling, and this yearning can't be expressed in a few words or a letter or two.
As a calligraphy lover, Wang Xizhi's Seventeen Articles is necessary before the case. Every time he came to the book, he always stopped writing and savored the words in the letter, which was a common sense of "broadness" in the ancients. Holding a note tonight reminds me of the years when I was so considerate.
I remember that in the days when I just left home to study abroad, I always had a long concern in my heart. I miss my parents and brothers, my childhood playmates and my hometown in the mountain village, just through letters. Qiu grew up in the same village. We studied and played together, and formed a deep childhood friendship. Finally, in the third year when I went out to study, he was admitted to Nanjing with excellent results. At that time, we wrote letters almost every week. I appreciate his pen calligraphy and we often encourage each other. Once we agreed that future correspondence could only be written with a brush. For a time, the biography of Tang people in the Jin Dynasty became our common favorite. Every holiday, I can always receive famous postcards of Nanjing scenery from him. I often collect some pictures of Lushan Mountain scenery and send them to my classmates and friends far away and my own students, including classmates and friends who grew up with the village head. Every picturesque postcard in Zhang Fengguang is a window to a better future, from which ideals and dreams can take off. Over time, my drawer is full of letters from friends all over the country, and that memory has moved me so far.
Later, when I worked and had a girl I liked, letters became the main way for us to express our love for each other. On a survey in the countryside, a sunny girl from the township government received us. The egg-yellow jacket and the jacket with black trousers set off the apple-red face. My long hair poured down like a waterfall, and my big black eyes surprised me for a while. I thought there was such a beautiful girl in the world. Maybe God specially prepared it for me. I have to start early so as not to regret it. I approached consciously, but I couldn't see through her motives, so I made an excuse to borrow books from her. But her door was unlocked, but no one was there. A book "Poems and Songs of Shu Ting from Gu Cheng" on the desk makes me toss and turn, and I can't wait. In a hurry, I came back with a book. Later, I thought it was inappropriate, so I wrote a short message to explain the reason for borrowing books. So we began to communicate for a long time. In the long run, letters have become the spiritual code for us to open our hearts to each other. At that time, although the work unit also had a telephone, it always felt that it was not as real and secret as writing letters, and many inconvenient words were well expressed through letters. At that time, I worked in Xianweiban, and I always worked overtime until late at night every night. Even if it is late, I will sit still and write a few pages before I go to bed. After each letter is sent, it is a long wait. Tension and expectation are full of anxiety, missing and longing. Later, I learned that the "early departure" I thought was actually the last bus in line. I beat all my competitors with letters as a weapon. I learned from her best friend that it was my letter that moved her, which made me a little complacent. The process of falling in love for several years is also the process of writing letters and waiting for letters. Writing and waiting have become the norm in our daily life and the most graceful color in our youth life. We talked about teams and poor households, poems and novels, distant travel and romantic cottages. Later, we combined the stationery written by each other into a book, and all this was left for time to cherish.
I once wrote to my aunt in the same village, to my son who was a soldier, and to the lonely old man for help from the civil affairs department. I have written many letters to newspapers and magazines, but after all, I have lost my dream of being a writer, and I have never hesitated to write. I just work hard and don't ask for anything. Nowadays, those letters and postcards full of years of dust have been piled up in bundles in that pile of old paper, overlapping and retreating to a corner. The color turns yellow, yellow turns brown, some are fragile, and they break when touched, and some are difficult to recognize. As an emotion in a certain period of time, it did exist, whether young or far away.
Due to the popularity of mobile phones and the Internet, the world has become shorter, and the contact information of people who are good at letters in ancient times has become invisible overnight. Human emotional sustenance becomes simple and direct. In an instant, the whole process of reposing and waiting has been completed, and even God has replied, so that people's thoughts and greetings are no longer brewed, fermented, matured, tasted, compared and discriminated, and even a long postman is not needed to connect. All data, images, sounds, words, symbols, expressions, cute pets, etc., can be directly reached with just a few strokes. For thousands of years, the communication between people collapsed overnight, and the process of that explosion seemed to have a thunderous explosion and the flicker of meteorites.
Finally, one day, I also learned to play WeChat, send emails and even indulge in the Internet. Send some of my thoughts and experiences to a circle of friends in the form of blogs, so that more friends who care about me can see them. Just when I was learning these so-called modern tools, I felt that I was getting closer and closer to the times, keeping pace with the times, but there was a strong hidden worry in my heart. When I accept new things, I am also losing them. People and things I once knew, loved and enjoyed left me one after another. Silent, unaware. One day, I woke up from my dream, and when I woke up, my heart was about to collapse, and that familiar sentence rang in my ear again, more leisurely than others. How can I put it?
Writing has been completely replaced by the torrent of typing, which has armed generations of young people. People seem to have become accustomed to the existence of years without words. That ordinary piece of paper can only be found from that pile of old paper by memory. Although I try to remember, it is the torrent of the times, and the green hills can't cover it. After all, it flows east But my inner worries still exist. Do people in the fast-paced world really regard the "broadmindedness" of the ancients as our shoes gone forever? Where did I send the stationery and who received it?