Author: Shi Jianan.
Trainee Editor: Zheng Xinyi.
Editor in charge: Zhou Wei.
WeChat editor: Wang Xinyuan.
The bridge was quite wide, and the night shared the coming darkness with me. The water under the bridge was churning, the visibility was terrible low at night, and the orange sunset gradually became shallow in the place that the sky had occupied, fading out of the disputes on the horizon, and then turning black, assimilated by the night, until it became one, and the colors could no longer be seen.
I could barely make out their outlines, black and dark, and the wind that set off represented the natural changes in the weather in this area, everything depended on the earth for its existence, and the dark matter that accumulated on the surface could no longer be concealed, echoed under the strong wind at this moment. Unbeknownst to the situation, the wind cowered and crept its way around, as if trying to give everything on the surface a sneak attack. Everything on the surface of the earth is rootless, including me, like the dust on this bridge, which will be blown away mercilessly by the wind without enough weight. But I am different from the dust, they have gone through countless trials and tribulations, starting from their hometown of dreams, and then going through a series of tosses, until now, they have finally been left on this bridge by the so-called arrangement of fate, just like the wind that never dares to speculate deeply.
I'm more like dust than dust. We are all standing at the cusp of the wind, and they will continue to be sent by the wind of all evil to the next place that can be used as a home, and we will no longer have to wander for necessity.
Quiescence. The footsteps came with a clang, the man's movements were as fast as the wind, and the heavy breathing sounded a hideous sound in the dust, as if it were a prelude to the wind, and I heard his heartbeat, strong and powerful, like the sound of a drum, "knock knock" in this winter night. His steps did not stop, and he quite naturally avoided me, a spectator who was dustier than dust. He rushed into the darkness on the other side of the bridge, fearless like a skilled hunter of prey. My eyes swept into the darkness until his wheezing was swallowed up by the wind. I know that the real wind has not yet come, but countless things have begun to prepare for a rainy day, but I, standing on this bridge, have not yet moved.
When night falls, there is no longer color that allows my camera to focus and focus on the negative. The conditions are needed for the formation of all things, they are the prologue to the beginning of this matter, like a psalm that has not yet been carved, I am the wedge, I am the transition, I am the connection, I am the bleak ending of the final chapter.
So I don't have to think about the wind. Countless dead branches were surging**, my ears seemed to be blocked, and my eyes had lost their color, I just stood at the tuyere, unprepared, to have a hand-to-hand fight with this sudden wind. The darkness is the prelude and the beginning of this wind, staring angrily at everything that stares into the abyss, including the bridge, including me. The fragments were pieced together, and countless fallen leaves that should have fallen to the ground and turned into fertilizer turned into the right hand of the wind at this moment, clamping me down, and under the cover of the night, the wind began a never-ending bullying.
I stretched out my fingers, resisting and enjoying the raging wind. Itchy, scratching my heart, I seem to have become a bridge in an instant—quietly, created by artists, trampled by all things in the world at any time, and the force of the wind frozen in the air seems to be no longer able to return to me—I only know that I seem to be a real bridge, seeing all the smoke and rain, and admiring the flowers and moons.
I turned into a bridge, my body was lonely, and the moon was full of flowers. Jiangnan Yanyu can no longer be my dream lover, but has really become my dream. Oil-paper umbrellas, green robes, pointy boats, crisp water chestnuts, lotus leaves and lotus flowers, countless people wear and go from my bridge belly, as well as smiles, slapsticks, mixed with the sound of loquat sales, and the fingers that turn off the water waves, repeatedly stirring in the cool water. There will be no leaves, but the water that fills the eyes and soaks the music of life. I am a bridge, I am just a bridge, but I can connect the smoke on both sides of this bridge, from this house to that house, the warmth of thousands of households adjacent to this water, is connected by a small bridge. The lights in the distance are gradually burning, chatting around the fireplace, sharing tea and dinner, is the most beautiful dream that exists in my world.
So I'm just a bridge, a bridge that simply hangs across the water. There is no past, and there is no future. Accepting the kiss and licking of the evening breeze, I seem to be the innumerable leisure in this world, content in the world and living with it.
But I couldn't smell the fireworks.
The night on the bridge was a little darker. The moonlight no longer hides, it hangs generously in the air, bored, there is nothing on both sides of the bridge, and the link between dreams and reality is always a more brutal darkness. I stood on the bridge**, carefully feeling the battle between reality and dreams.
I'm not a bridge, so the wind can't get through my chest, it can only push me back, I can't dodge, we all have our own positions, we don't have a reason to retreat.
At this time, I was like a real wall, stuck in dreams and reality. I long to have the best dreams, to step into the cruel reality, to use that wonderful dream to weaken what has become a rule and cannot be changed. I am like a sharp sword, fiercely slashing across the darkness and reality. I was just lying sideways, neither inserting nor pulling out, and I was at a stalemate with each other, not knowing which side was more likely to bow to me first and confess my sins. I don't know, I don't know, I'm waiting for an answer, they're waiting for an answer, they're waiting for me to give them an answer.
My fingers were still exposed to the air, waiting for the wind to blow.
I felt the shape of the wind, and it was becoming dishonest in my hands, and I couldn't hold it, and I felt the tangles and hesitations that time had born out of hell somehow suddenly come to naught. The feeling that came from the bottom of my heart suddenly became very important, and quietly, when the wind suddenly came, it didn't seem so difficult, they were not light or heavy, and I felt the joy of the wind wanting to shake hands with me.
It seems that the ending of all stories can be happy or there are regrets, just like the wind and me, it seems to be to shake hands and make peace, and fate?And the future?Or is it with the self who was so unfamiliar with the past?Neither. It is the wind, and every unexpected encounter, and every new thing that has never met - shaking hands and making peace, because on this road, in addition to the future and past, there is also the present, and those things and people who can finally meet after countless choices.
The evening breeze was smiling, albeit with a hollow dark expression. I don't have to worry about reality and dreams anymore, it seems that not so long ago, every bridge here was a passage, one end was the past, the other was the future. We have never met, and now we have already met by chance on this road in the future.
For example, in winter, when a finger sticks out of a pocket, it is the encounter of that finger of the wind.
Review: Yang Yue.
Reviewer: Zhou Wei.
Click ** to subscribe to the China Young Writers Newspaper made of special paper.