Spring must be like this: from the green hills, a handful of snow can no longer be caught. With a splash, the cold face turned into a painted face, and a song sang from the clouds to the foothills, from the foothills to the low and deserted villages, to the hedgerows, to the yellow webbed ducklings, and to the soft and soluble spring mud.
So charming, so sensitive, but so chaotic. A thunder can make clouds cry all over the sky for no reason, and a cuckoo cry can make a city full of azaleas. When a gust of wind rises, every willow tree will sing a white, empty, inexplicable and inaudible fly. Every fly is a semicolon of a willow. Anyway, spring is so unreasonable and illogical, but it can still be good and calm.
Spring must be like this: the withered stems full of dark leaves and flowers cling to an old root, and the roof beams of thousands of families in the north are bullied by snow and snow, gently supporting an empty bird's nest. Then, suddenly, one day, peach blossoms captured the water profiles of all the mountain villages. Willow has taken control of the royal ditch and the folk river head. Spring, like Julian Waghann with a clear-cut flag, is beautiful because of long-term pious prayer.
As for the name of spring, there must have been such a story: before the Book of Songs, before the Historical Records and before the characterization of Cang Xie, a lamb suddenly felt juicy when eating grass, a child suddenly felt soaring when flying a kite, a pair of legs suffering from wind pain suddenly felt comfortable, and Qian Qian suddenly felt the blood of water when washing yarn by the river.
Birds can start measuring the sky again. Some are responsible for measuring the blue of the sky, some are responsible for measuring the transparency of the sky, and some are responsible for measuring the height and depth of the sky with those wings. Not all birds are excellent mathematicians. They chattered and counted, looked around, and finally dared not publish statistics.
As for all the flowers, they have been given to the butterfly to count. Give all the pistils to the bees for cataloging. All the trees were ruined by the wind. The wind is handed over to the old wind chimes in front of the eaves for memory and inquiry.
Spring must be like this, or, somewhere, is it still like this? Through the black forest of chimneys, I want to visit the spring wandering in the distant years.
Answer straight, Liu Weidong.
In Bayinbuluke grassland, the grass rises and falls like waves under the sunshine, the shepherd's low voice passes through the wet grass, and the dark horse's eyes shine with strange light.
The blue mountain peaks, the blue sky, the leisurely figure of the shepherd swaying back and forth, the shiny black fur of the dark horse and the tender grass growing on the fertile grassland all have the same attractive colors. The sun set among the horses, and the whole grassland echoed with the shepherd's song alone. The shepherd's bronze complexion has a healthy and extraordinary aesthetic feeling.
This is an ancient song sung in Mongolian. The whole valley is full of deep echoes, sometimes the sound pours on the grass like running water, and the horses are quietly grazing, occasionally making a thin chewing sound.
The shepherd's figure is a little wobbly, and his steps are staggering and fast. The gray figure soon disappeared in the shadow of the mountain peak, and a mysterious and strange commotion began to faint.
On the Bayinbuluke grassland, ancient ballads exude an amazing suffocating smell of earth, like black dry clods in the sun.
That's a beautiful language. The tone of the sentence is euphemistic, the melody is harmonious, rich and quaint, and those vulgar songs that are vented make people feel uneasy for a long time.
I always thought that I learned the enlightenment of Mongolian in Bayinbuluke grassland. The mysterious relationship between the nature of this language and Chinese is beyond my comprehension.
Since I was nineteen years old, I have been tirelessly chasing a kind of earthly clean music from the turbid and violent Yellow River in the north. I think these music are enough to make up for my mental, thinking and knowledge defects. Those healthy horses, arrogant words and mysterious songs related to me did not come back to life when I disappeared into the city. The dark horse is like a roaring frenzy, running wildly in my distant world. I can't catch up with them anymore. I closed my eyes when our eyes met. You imprisoned me in this lonely land, dry grassland, and I couldn't find the green that balanced my heart. I was dizzy and miserable.
I stood in the shadow of the foothills and gasped. I am like an old horse, lacking enough understanding of the living world around me and full of worries.
I am like a horse looking for wisdom beyond knowledge in this world. My only language is to keep running.
Everything is in their own difficult support, through a tragic choice to get through it. The dirty air interferes with your judgment and thinking, making you fidgety, angry and impatient when you fall.
Those ancient songs, those bitter songs, I have heard countless times, and I have tried to find you in all kinds of fake songs and rubbish. You are still the same, comfort me and tell me the form and method of facing the world. However, you are not a god, you are just a branch of language bred by rich culture. We all exposed our vulnerability and scars. You haven't changed yourself, but I'm beginning to waver, and it's hard to find you.
Language learning is a difficult process. I can only try to get your form, but I can't avoid the embarrassment of ignorance. I'm just a child who lost his sense of direction on this boundless grassland. I don't have enough nomadic experience to get your approval. Although I can understand your pain and bitterness, you are stubborn and fierce. What I wrote only made you sad, but I still refused to give up, because you nurtured me.
At the age of twenty, I have two worlds, one is a barren village, the other is a grassland that is no longer fertile, and the other is a devil like you and a god like you-a city. I can't curse you, I can't refuse you, I can't hate you. Times have divided such tragedies, and I can only continue to struggle strongly.
I am a shepherd, and my writing is going on easily and difficultly under this name. Everything has nothing to do with miracles, skills and your deconstruction. I'm fighting my fate alone. Whether you change your form or give up your duel qualification, I will continue my principle.
Two worlds are tearing at me and fighting for me. With the approval of these poor and lonely friends, I approached you simply.
Do you know what Mongolian is, struggling in polluted air and surviving in the tide of desire? Mongolian is a heroic language that strongly stimulates your fragile nerves and impacts your deep tone. In other words, it can give you the ability to recognize beauty and stimulate your withered feelings. Deep and penetrating foreign music, immersed in my son under the influence of China culture, gave me different inspiration. Many cultures use her rich connotation and fierce nature to stimulate me, seduce me, coach me, and let me feel a kind of care in the injury. These music and unique culture give me the ability to recover quickly, which makes my extreme mind have new development possibilities. Whether in Bayinbuluke grassland or the famous northern grassland I have never been to, such as Ordos grassland or Tengger desert, I have vaguely felt the cultural appeal and strong inner life. Not in textbooks, not in research institutes, but in the hearts of shepherds with loud voices and full confidence.
Mongolian long tune, the famous "Dark Horse" and those unknown songs with pure sound quality are all my favorite ancient songs. It is so different, the sound quality is strange and mysterious, the slow and long rhythm slowly surrounds you, and you can only give up resistance and language. That long "black horse" is rich and full of strength. This temperament and texture make me unforgettable for a long time, and I miss it for a long time and sing it repeatedly. It doesn't occupy my whole world, it just silently echoes in my narrow and never narrow world, waiting for me to go back and wait for my conversion. I found the familiar rhythm, and I looked at the confused front gratefully. The wave of music drowned me in this divided world.
Listening to this kind of music is the most taboo to be impetuous. In this process, you are thrown into a corner of the world, curled up in the corner like a wounded animal, and your soul needs to be saved. Although I don't like to describe the feeling that this music brought to my savior, I just expressed my feelings and experiences truthfully. I have no right to tamper with it and describe it to you, and I have no intention of becoming an authoritative preacher. I just like it. When I feel lonely and isolated, I get strong support, which will change my pessimistic view of the world, my understanding of writing itself and my bad temper.
This kind of language and ballad can only be a miracle. Bayinbuluke grassland, horses are in turmoil, and a large area of grass color and fur black blend together like a tidal wave. It is not clear whether this land and herdsmen's eyes are suspicious or confused. In the vast sea of suffering, you can't see an island to rely on. I broke the mask that the world gave me in despair and anger, and you have broken your heart for me countless times. It used to be the battlefield of the cold weapon era, the destruction of poets and ideal heads, and the death of various values. You can see tourists who speak American English, Japanese and even Germanic, and you can see coca-cola bottle and white garbage piled up crazily on the grassland.
Making a living from a rigid old literature and writing with faith will also face the possibility of being destroyed from time to time. From the initial composition, I understood the meaning of the article. I will not destroy my faith because of belittling and attacking, nor will I be blindly depressed because of paranoia. It will re-establish all kinds of relationships between me and the world and explain to me the significance and limitations of all kinds of literature you insist on. This is related to a person's ability to love and hate, and has more connotations.
It's still music that I can't give up. I've gone on a journey after another, with no regrets all the way. The most beautiful music in the world has penetrated into my body, and my blood and I have become a part of it. My temperament also has its shadow, and I enjoy it. From the embrace of grassland to the most prosperous city, I have always adhered to my own literary form and constantly adjusted my thinking. Because of these precious music, I understand the limitations of love and hate, and rebel against the old model.
Those ancient and even lost music are things that teach people how to love, how to hate and how to understand life. These musical arts, which are the most humane and can stimulate people's healthy emotions, have affected my life and thinking in this way. The essence of music and language is such a natural combination. The characteristics, phonology and perceptual voice of Mongolian language mix the turbulent colors of grassland with the strange sound quality. Life and death are inseparable. The definition of music and literature has long been guessed here, which tells you that beautiful and desperate experiences are dangerous and hypocritical narratives. Insect bites and viruses are eating away at people in China.
My longest trip is the summer vacation after the college entrance examination. This is the longest and most meaningful trip I have ever experienced in my life. From the distant Bayinbuluke grassland through Golmud, Loess Plateau and Huaibei Plain, it was introduced into the southern water town.
When the train passed through the Loess Plateau, the train passed through the long-lost Central Plains, the water mist was confused, the sound of the Yellow River was dull, and the snow outside the window fell silently on the rotten and broken land. Two equally broken worlds, my words can't sew up this huge crack, and it's heartbreaking to indulge in such scenery in the bumpy late-night carriage.
I look at the world with a child's eyes. The poor and hot scenery and the entanglements that I can't get rid of in my life are exhausting. I try to be serious, give up the possibility of relying on a kind of literature to change myself early and face the dark corner of the world. On the crumbling grassland where I love ancient songs very much, I was bruised all over and fell heavily from the saddle of the dark horse. It is this kind of pain that makes me gradually realize my limitations. When I feel confused during the long journey, I will think of this special education.
The train entered the hinterland of the south, and the green hills, red soil and ancient rivers were full of sensibility. Wang Yang's wanton green color makes people forget the thirsty and harsh color of the northern Loess Plateau. On a clear night, the flame-like grass swayed the lights of the carriage, and my reading entered a state. Miluo, which once passed through Qu Yuan, was so obsessed.
Golmud and Mongolia are both places with dense rivers. Archaeology has exposed the beauty of a sad China language, which is rotten, sweet and sour, gaunt, and the dead fire in my heart growls. It is not simply cursing the indifference, scars, suffocation and disaster of the city.
Both Sima Qian, who wrote Historical Records, and Qu Yuan, who refused to go along with the common customs, will be puzzled by this long night. The rivers in the south of China, like cold and sad words, opened an incomplete and cold side of the world to me. Maps, Sina, rice paper, broken pen and ink, scars exposed by scarlet door panels in the study, question my feelings. False or hypocritical, when the ink drops, the scarlet seal script has already declared my fate. This is the old way of thinking and values, decadent or rebellious, and I am doomed to fail. False scenery and emotional music tormented me on this heavy night. My knowledge of folk customs almost exhausted my confidence. I have no intention of basing my writing on ancient scenery. I just long for a new vision and thinking, a hearty and carefree lyric poem. I just want to express those abstract function words and feelings concretely, or I am eager to get that kind of just and clean words, that kind of old-fashioned paranoid and fanatical new words. Sometimes I hate those lands. I'm tired of being closed to dirty air and even suffocating tolerance, and I'm tired of decadent literature that wastes great energy.
The long cold night in the south is very different from the Bayinbuluke grassland where I wander. Such a night trip is mysterious and sad, bitter and lonely, and you are addicted to it. You fully feel the powerlessness of words, which is a kind of sadness. It is a kind of pain to make a sober judgment on such feelings. This expression separates the hand from the pen, and the flame in my heart keeps licking the split wound. When the narrative moves towards obscure and gray lyricism, rhetoric and speech, I feel heart failure and tears fall silently. Pen and ink withered, but fortunately, I didn't fall into the quagmire of words, religion or nothingness. I chose a confident music, the sound of nature, to save your broken heart when you were injured. I don't like the techniques and methods of annotation, appraisal and compilation. I like to express my subjective feelings, intuition and thoughts directly. The fire in my heart burned those words with the breath of my body, and ashes floated in this aging water. In this way, the southern China has given me suffering in this lonely cold night journey, and I still have a chance to get out. I don't know if all vagrants have an ultimate direction in their hearts, but it or J is a metaphysical argot. I often remind myself to be wary of this writing attitude and state. My values and thoughts will become shameful words because of my mistakes, and I will survive by luck because of my sobriety. It may be destroyed beyond recognition, but I won't give up this possibility. Only in this way can I really get close to you, my Mongolian long tune and my dark horse.
I remember seeing autumn in the south of China. Through the window, the rain washed away the broken scenery at night. Muddy red pottery, muddy yellow rice wine, tea residue, dark and shiny kettle, cracked wooden board, southern scenery and a kind of dedication to the world leave a cold and blunt impression. Heavy rain poured down on the empty land, as if everything had disappeared and stood still. I only see the gray sky, and the rain is ravaging the dead leaves of those buttonwood trees. Those dilapidated villages in the heavy rain aroused my inexplicable and complicated emotions, a simple extreme, hatred and shock. You watch the rain open the rotten side and expose it to you, which makes people instantly unbearable and fall into nothingness and sadness. Even if you are engaged in an optimistic writing, you are too worried. I am afraid of being swallowed up in this feeling when I watch the black rails smash those rubble and tree pages. I am confident that my knowledge of the geography and customs in the south is enough to make me talk nonsense. But times have changed, and treacherous, depraved and despicable acts have now penetrated into the blood of noble intellectuals. I must get to know our relationship again.