- After all, I found that the main reason why I like to stay up late to write is because I like to stay up late, not to write.
At the end of the year, the sky is cold, and in the early morning, a moment of tapping the keyboard, a window for dignity to rub back in black and white, and an opportunity for a dry soul without the nourishment of supper to ask and answer itself. They did everything together, overturned all the thinking and theories of the day, and in the process of subverting the firefight, I got a sleepless face.
The scrutinizing eyes suddenly became **, and in the hands without distraction, I strictly looked at all the pieces of paper with words on the table. Camus's ** and Long Yusheng's rhythmic book were stacked on the side in a regular manner, silent. A few books of modern poets were placed in a remote corner in the middle of nowhere, and I had the privilege of intimacy for a few nights, and then the status was inferior to that of a lamp.
Half of the curtain is covered, and half is left for the tilted afterglow to enjoy the sky. In the starless night, many people and things are reduced to endless passers-by.
There seems to be some kind of conjugated or ineffable relationship between the state of life, between nothing and something. In the distant past, there was a rush for a while, but in those days I was always busy. Now they are scattered, eating, drinking, and sleeping have nothing to do, but they don't know what they are doing in vain every day, and they still enjoy it.
After experiencing the years of the class with the axe, the time of walking alone, and the era of confusion and stubbornness, even if you still can't suppress the heart of complete utilitarianism, it is no longer a problem to put on a meaningless posture to live a hidden life. It was at this time that many younger people were ushered in, and the figure that came through the wind and snow, with tears on his face or simple words, really looked like a wax figure in his mirror.
Holding a pen is like holding a torch freshly coated with kerosene, and the spark of literature always comes quietly or suddenly. These are the exact words I wrote to my peers a few days ago. It reminds me of a volume of miscellaneous manuscripts stewed in August last year, in which I talked about playing poetry as if it were a step-by-step ladder to follow, when the talent reached a certain level, that is, we began to explore feelings, we had certain feelings, that is, we began to think about the origin, and after a certain traceability, we began to pursue rationality, and after a certain stage, we began to deny the past, negated some content, that is, we began to pick up the past. Infinite loop, passing through absurdity and dreams, just like a person's life.
He also used a passage to explain the logic of Taoism to teach and write.
Technique is art, and work is the Tao, and you can achieve the Tao by cultivating Xi with art, but you can't create and improve on the inherent track, and you will be trapped in the next barrier after breaking through the barrier in front of you. After mastering the skills, don't settle for the skills, but put yourself out of the skills and keep thinking. Otherwise, you will perish in the old ways of your predecessors for life.
The development of cultural context is nothing more than innovation and integration.
In my spare time, I think about these questions and look back on the embers of a little speculation with interest and unfinished. This is very different from the stressful state of mind when a rigid job or program is at the head.
There is no Xi of turning the calendar, but today's is indeed approaching the end of the year. This is a fact that contains some pain and helplessness, but pretends to be longing and not very longing. The past year is like a dream, reality and ideals are like two strangers who slap each other.
It's always good to be on the wall, no matter what, mastering the skill of avoiding losses is far better than making a quick profit in probability, and the same is true for playing poetry, and the same is true for living a life. Born in Chengdu, it is more accurate to lie in Wuhou District, a region with rich enough cultural heritage, and several great sages can be regarded as neighbors separated by miles and more than a thousand years old.
I go around a lot, and the neighborhood relationship is still good.
Yesterday, I played couplets with a few friends in the WeChat group for a while, and I am not a professional after all, but as you said, the Spring Festival is approaching, and it is necessary or necessary to create some excitement. In the end, he left himself an unpretentious "auspicious star high photo".
In the front of Du Fu and behind Zhuge , the text and ink are full of wind and moon".
Left hug takeaway and right hold express delivery, contemptible New Year".
Calligraphy is naturally not proficient, and the entity cannot be completed, but the joy of the couplet is not thinly attached to the soul and the tongue of communication. There are no more emotions and emotions in my room, the four walls are full, the waste of the last second of thought can be wiped out, the treasures of the last ten years of memory are framed and jeweled, and the collections in my cabinet are facing each other, like two old cavalrymen who have fled from the secular world.
The strength to carry the gun is gone, and the effort to light a cigarette is not only sighing from the past.
Both good and bad, all of them have become the employers of the foundation of the personality of those who are powerless to manipulate it. Around me, those loops of *** carefully concocted big lies will be the curtain of countless bodies, cups and drums, soup spoons are sharp weapons, and the grasp of honorifics is incomparably sublimated in brilliance, so as to progress into a happy ceremony. More than 300 yellow calendars are flying like flowers, and the signs of good luck are stamped to the north of the earth and the south of the sky.
I wanted to quote Borges's poem, but a seal was glued to my lips and teeth.
It's easy to understand what the year is. In the mountains, that is, in the mountains can also be in the lonely mountains, in the mountains for the New Year, what is paid attention to is a quiet, comfortable, or a little self-exile and repair of feelings. I chose this as the topic, which is probably a perfect portrayal of my heart.
The window contains a thousand autumn snow in Xiling", I often talk about this poem in other places, in addition to boasting about the thousand-year-old rhyme of my hometown, I can't help but ridicule this work if it is born today, it is quite a bit of a suspicion of deceiving tourists. There are many high-rise buildings in the urban area of Shudu, and if you want to see the mountain, you can only see the crowd of people, and you can't see Xiling. Falling snow is also a product of dreams, and for more than ten years, if it is not the light snow almost the tick of rain, it is the year after year when you don't know what snow is.
This year is like the old year, the snow is falling, I browsed**and countless ** joys in the circle of friends, and then peeked out of my window, the ordinary appearance of the world. A gust of wind swept in the face, and it was a cold temperature with bad intentions.
Looking forward to the cold winter in the middle of summer, and cursing the cold weather in the cold winter, people are always contradictory. It seems that I am clearly in the streets and alleys of the city, but the article is forced to block the landscape and wind, and the difference between hope and reality must be greater than my sad acumen. It seems that the more the soul tries to escape, the more the statue listens attentively, the more the host is full of broken silver, and the more the face of the mountains and rivers is unharmed.
The rime is thick, the sky and the clouds and the mountains and the water, up and down are white. ”
I like Zhang Dai's words, and the feeling of being in the dust but dusting is probably talented. I once said that I didn't recommend reading his works when I was young, because the immature bones of these young people can't withstand a few times of lazy and soft artistic conception, and a few more spiritual feasts, and the sharp spirit will disappear. "Tianjing Garden bathing hall, high acacia deep bamboo, Yue dark mille-feuille, sitting on the Lan Dang, a ripple, water and wood Mingse, fish, birds, algae, like taking the air. ”
A night in the east of Jincheng a few years ago, I stroked the epitaph he left for me over and over again.