36,525 days
本文借“节日”之名，反思人类赋予时间意义的方式，以诗性语言揭示：真正属于我们的，是那些未被标记却悄然流逝的瞬间。Framed by the concept of “festivals,” this piece reflects on how humans seek to give meaning to time—ultimately revealing, in poetic language, that what truly belongs to us are the unmarked, silently passing moments.
他们说那是杂草——一种无意长出的情绪，自由地，野性的，但我却看见它们在他人痛处上疯长。裂开的，不是墙，而是目光背后的笑意——那种拧成钩子的笑，从指缝里漏下，不声不响地扎进另一具身体。你以为自己只是观看，却不知屏幕另一端是皮肤、骨头、血的真实回响。匿名遮住了你的脸，却放大了你眼中的冷意。有人在废墟中咳嗽，你却把这咳嗽当成了烟火。 They called it a weed—an emotion that grew unintentionally, freely, wildly.But I saw it thrive on the wounds of others.What cracked wasn’t the wall, but the smile behind a glance—the kind of smile twisted into a hook, slipping through fingers and silently piercing another body.You thought you were just … Read more
权力不是利剑，而是一缕会呼吸的雾；不是暴君，而是体贴的舞者；不是毁灭规则，而是诱导规则自我演变。在灰色的绸缎之上，它裁剪制度，粉饰语言，试探人心，最终不露痕迹地篡改了边界。 Power is not a sword, but a wisp of breathing mist; not a tyrant, but a considerate dancer; not a destroyer of rules, but a seducer that leads them to evolve on their own. Upon gray satin, it tailors institutions, embellishes language, tests the hearts of people, and in … Read more
我本以为只要点亮一处，整座屋子就会亮起来，但灯泡碎了，电线缠成死结。走廊尽头忽然飘来一阵旧乐曲，我跟着旋律走，途中踩碎了几页笔记。那些本以为无用的句子，如今却像散落在地板上的糖果，闪着光。不是我理解了什么，而是它们突然允许我靠近。 知识不是树，是一片森林，每棵树都在讲不同的梦。 I used to think that lighting up one spot would illuminate the whole room. But the bulb shattered, and the wires tangled into a hopeless knot. Then, from the end of the hallway, an old melody drifted in. I followed the tune, stepping over torn pages of notes … Read more
初心，本是照亮理想的火种，却在权力面前悄然变质。有人以“为人民”的名义行私利之实，以“革命需要”为盾，将特权披上正义的外衣。他们高举平等，实则筑起新的等级；呼喊解放，却渴望独占话语。斗争是他们的舞台，群众是背景，理想成了装饰性的布景。初心不过是一件精致的戏服，用来打动人心，也用来掩盖贪欲。最终，当硝烟散尽，他们最先退场，只留下新一轮特权秩序和一块冷冷的碑：为理想，谋特权。 The original aspiration was meant to be the spark that illuminated our ideals, yet it quietly deteriorated in the face of power. Some act in the name of “serving the people” while pursuing personal gain; they wield “revolutionary necessity” as a shield, cloaking privilege in the garb of justice. … Read more
我听见“人民”这个词在广播里重复，沙哑、铿锵，像一枚旧铜币在空碗里翻滚。它有时像父亲的鞋印，踩在泥地上，有力却模糊；有时像广场上的喊声，被扩音器拉长，空洞而嘹亮。 每一个说出它的人都像是在投掷一块布，想盖住些什么。可风太大，布被吹走，露出下面沉睡的词语——权利、排斥、代表、遗忘。语言是张桌布，展开时是宴席，折起时是暗语。 I hear the word “people” repeated on the radio—hoarse and sonorous—like an old copper coin spinning in an empty bowl. Sometimes, it’s like my father’s footprints in the mud—firm, yet blurred. Sometimes, it’s like the cries in the square—stretched thin and loud through loudspeakers, hollow but resonant. Everyone … Read more
他不记得什么时候学会了这个动作——不是为了好看，是因为有一回在雨里走太久，他的身体开始往下坠，像布娃娃断了线。那时候他突然收腹，像是从水底蹬了一脚回来。 从那天起，每一次在人前挺胸，都像在表演一个起义者；可腹中的那团火，总是烧得不急不慢。他开始喜欢那个几乎看不见的收缩——像某种动物在皮下蜷伏着，只有他知道它在那里，它是活的，它听得见羞辱和沉默。 挺胸，是应战。 收腹，是不死。 He couldn’t remember when he first learned the movement—not for appearances, but because once, after walking too long in the rain, his body began to sink, like a puppet with its strings cut. In that moment, he pulled in his abdomen, as if pushing off from … Read more
我不再等那个回信息的人。他甚至不知道我撑伞的那晚，鞋子进了水，脚在地铁里冻得发青……我开始收藏被拒绝时的表情——嘴角翘了一点又放下的那种，那是他们内心的真实……如果我是一只装满热水的瓶子，我要把瓶口拧紧，不再漏出去。 I’m no longer waiting for the one who never texts back. He doesn’t even know that on the night I held the umbrella, water soaked my shoes, and my feet turned blue with cold in the subway… I’ve started collecting the expressions people make when they reject you—that slight … Read more
