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reopen my spaceLong time no come here.
half one year...
Actually, I miss it so much.
Ok, I decide to reopen it.
May you be happy everyday, all of My friends! 倔强 有一种根子里的倔强是抹不去的。本以为，随着周遭环境的一变再变，随着某次不顾后果不计得失地“爱上了”，我便成为了另外一个女子，一个通情达理、知情知性的女子。
可, 不是的。
骨子里还是那倔脾气。
今天又是半路下车散步回家的。想想上次的专心留出时间散心是什么时候。大概3个月前吧。日志也记过的。就这样，时光一分一秒地过去，然后，积累出经验，磨娑着回忆。翻起一年前的、半年前的照片，很多以为自己能够记得一辈子的东西在脑海中都已渐渐模糊。我尽力地想，也不过想出一个大概，得到的只是轮廓，能够留在记忆中的细节所剩无几。
我是不自主地微笑了。这样生活方式让我感到轻松。虽然会有某个瞬间特空白，但却因为感觉不到自己的存在而更加轻松。
多年后，我回想现在，仍会有大致相同的感觉吧。
我和谁曾相识一场。我拐了拐了多少个弯。
所有出现过的人，和发生过的事，我一直想，同时遗忘。 Kill time to kill memoryGod doesn't give me enough time to squander. However, for now, I still need something badly to kill the fucking time which keeps flowing through the inside and outside. He must be gone. Everything must be gone. I knew it long before I had to face it. I had to face it, I knew. What I need to forget are not only the details we were enjoying and suffering, but also his image having been engraved on my memory. So I can't...I can't do it. We will resume. The Robbie in Atonement spoke it out for me. There is no possibility of writing this passage on. I need a long rest, long enough to forget all about him. The days when I came to living aloneOnce upon a time, many years ago—just 12 years ago, in fact—I was living in a dormitory. I was 9 and a Grade-4 student. I was new to Luoyang and new to living by myself, and so my anxious parents and grandparents found a private room for my weekends to live in a hotel rather than the kind of single room rather than leave myself in the dorm alone. The hotel provided meals and other entertainments and would probably help the unworldly 9-year-old girl’s survive. Expenses were not a consideration as now. Besides bedding and some furnishing, there were also a lot of luxuries which there was no need to buy.
For my part, I would have preferred to stay at the dorm and live in suffering solitude, but knowing what my parents had to spend time on the way to the school I was attending back and forth, to and fro, I was in no position to insist. And besides, I really didn’t care where I lived, only if I was holding one novel. Located in the centre of Luoyang City with highest views, the room sat in the 15th floor of Xuangong Hotel surrounded by upper air. From its windows, you could look up and see nothing of the sky through its dense cover of clouds, or look down and see the superb panorama of the entire city. Beyond the room, I always went to the dining hall on the 16th floor. There were also an auditorium, meeting rooms, and even guest rooms, whose use I didn’t fathom. Everything seems vague now. One thing was certain, though: in the ………………. In any case, I spent two years—from the autumn of 1905 to the summer of 1997—living in that hotel. Why I put up with it so long, I can’t really say. In terms of everyday life, it made no practical difference to me whether the place was a room in high-class hotel or a dorm in school or anything else. Every weekend began with the lowering of the flag at Friday dusk and ended in the solemn raising of the flag on Monday morning, when my schoolmates and I all wearing the navy-blue student uniforms carried them out with the same ceremonial reverence, but in reverse. These years since I left Luoyang, I have been wondering why the flag had to be taken down on Fridays. The nation continued to exist while it was on weekends, and plenty of people worked seven days one week: it seemed unfair to me that there a lot of people were denied the protection of the flag. Or maybe it didn’t matter all that much and nobody really cared—aside from me. Not that I really cared, either. It was just something that happened to cross my mind. At that time, I was impressed by the variety of dreams and goals that life could offer. This was one of the very first new impressions I received when I came to living myself for the first time. The thought struck me that society needed a few people—just a few—who were interested in and even passionate. At the thought, I remember I could have picked something else, such as, history, drama.
Empty cans used for ashtrays hold mounds of cigarette butts, and when these started to smoulder they’d be doused with coffer or beer and left to give off a sour stink. It never occurred to anyone to sweep up and throw these things in the bin. Dirty clothes have piled up on the ground, and without anyone bothering to air the mattresses on a regular basis, these sweat-impregnated pads would give off odours beyond redemption. I meant it as a joke, but it seemed everybody all took me seriously—so seriously that I began to believe it myself.
There was nothing more for me to say. What could I have said? I didn’t treasure anything I owned, I don’t, and I won’t. I am sitting on the bed at a loss for words, and I am trying to comfort myself to calm down.
I should go off to have supper, alone. Memory of himI woke up at the crack of dawn this morning. I couldn’t get back into sleep. Things like that must happen. They do, every once in a while. Maybe once in two or three weeks.
After coming to Canada, I always act like that. At the moment of that kind, everything flashed out of my mind suddenly. Chunks of my memory were missing, and a little green lizard slithered into an open seam. There is no possibility of leaning over the edge or peering down to see anything. It is like a well, with a frightening depth. It is deep beyond measuring, and crammed full of darkness, as if all the world’s darknesses had been boiled down to their ultimate density.
No. I should have chosen words with care. Perhaps I have been used to speaking that way, so I had better slow down to look for some shiny words. But no one knows how exact they are. The only thing I know for sure is that they do not fit me as well.
I found out that I had fallen in the well and that had been the end of me.
Maybe just like the dawn, I am cracked. And worse, I will crack up if I go on living like this. “I am loving living every single day, but sometimes I feel so…”
Something disappeared all of a sudden and I just couldn’t find it; like somebody. Maybe a well like that is not a bad place to die, not terrible place to die. In the well I could yell at the top of my lungs, at the same time nobody would hear me, and I wouldn’t worry about that anyone would find me. But, I’m afraid of the centipedes and spiders crawling all over me, and the bones of the ones who died before are scattered all around me, and it’s dark and soggy, and high overhead there’s this tiny, tiny circle of light like a winter moon. I die there in this place, little by little, all by myself. I find it hard to make my flesh creep by thinking about it. I make up my mind to find the well out and build a wall around it. “BUT NOBODY CAN FIND IT. SO MAKE SURE YOU DON’T GO OFF THE PATH”. Some stranger’s voice echoed on my mind.
There existed one man. His existence is quick like a flash. One winter night, he took his left had from his pocket and squeezed my right hand. The he left, leaving myself going running all around here in the middle of the night. Once, he said to me”As long as I stick with you, you won’t fall into the well. Never.” How could he be so sure? I wish he would be always right. It has got nothing to do with logic. I just wanna feel it. Through all the course of my life, only I am close to him am I not the least bit scared. Nothing dark or evil could ever tempt me then. I thought all I had to do was stay with him like that all the time. I meant that.
He left me before he could put his hands on my shoulders and peer into my eyes. Deep within his own pattern. If happening, it would be so marvelous and warm that it could stop my heart for a moment.
Once when he was speaking, he clamped his mouth shut. I could tell that all kinds of thoughts were whirling around in his head, so rather than intrude on them I kept silent by his side. We talked of something else after a long pause.
When he worked during the day, or went on a business trip, nobody would watch over me. I knew I could not be glued to him every minute of my entire life. But I didn’t expect the separation came so soon.
I am not rigid enough. Sometimes I let down my guard unexpectedly. I am all tensed up, expecting the worst. Only that can assure me the uninjured under attack or in the fight.
So much hurt has made me feel drained of feeling of any kinds, which alerts me to the possibility I have done something I shouldn’t have. While I am complaining about why someone is not telling me anything I don’t know already, I have no patience to hear anything with all my attention. I try to stare at the ground beneath my feet. What’s the point of doing that? I just know that if I relax my body, I’d fall apart. I have always lived like this, and it’s the only way I know how to go on living. If I relax for just one second, I’d never find my way back. I’d fall into pieces, and the pieces would be blown away.
Now I am walking through the frightful silence of a pine forest. I couldn’t know any further that he didn’t mean to hurt me, and he had kept trying not to let what he had done bother me. He must be angry at himself. “Will you do me two favors?” “You can have up to three wishes, baby”
I remember that he existed, and that he stood next to me there like that.
The late autumn filtering through the branches danced over the shoulders of my jacket. A dog barked again, closer than before. I said I would never forget him. Now I know, sure enough, I could never forget him.
Even so, my memory has grown increasingly dim, and I have already forgotten any number of things. Writing from memory like this, I often feel a pang of dread. What if I have forgotten the most important thing? What if somewhere inside me there a dark limbo where all the truly important memories are heaped and slowly turning into mud? Be that as it may, it’s all I have to work with. Clutching these faded, fading, imperfect memories to my breast, I go on writing with all the desperate intensity of a starving girl sucking on bones. This is the only way I know to keep my promise to him, and myself.
Once, long ago, when the memories were far more vivid than they are now, I often tried to write about him. But I couldn’t produce a line. I knew that if that first line would come, the rest would pour itself onto the page, but I could never make it happen. Everything was too sharp and clear, so that I could never tell where to start—the way a map that shows too much can sometimes be useless. Now though, I realize that all I can place in the imperfect vessel of writing are imperfect memories and imperfect thoughts. The more the memories of him inside me fade, the more deeply I am able to understand him.
I don’t know whether or not my problems will go to continue for the rest of my life. But the faith I am holding is that they’ll end eventually. And when they do, I will stop and think about how to go on from there.
The thought fills me with an almost unbearable sorrow. Actually, time can tell me nothingAfter three days’ preliminaries, the carrying out of new life seems successful. With cold December snow drenching the earth, cigar-puffing always lends everything a gloomy air. Once I am going for long walks on my own, soft music flowing from the earphones: a sweet orchestral cover version of Sade’s songs, the melody mixed with the cigar never fails to send a fantastic feeling of euphoria through me, and every time it would hit me harder than ever.
I still remember the moment when the Canadian plane carrying me and many other people reached the gate, when people began unfastening their seatbelts and pulling luggage from the overhead lockers. Summer 2007, and soon I would be studying in Canada. That moment in my head always acted as the hypnagogic hallucination, which sets me swaying at the edge of consciousness. No depression, just feeling kind of blue. I still can bring back every detail of that moment even though 4 months have gone by. The moment I got out of the airport, washed clean of summer’s dust by days of gentle rain, everything wore a refreshed color. The December breeze set me bringing back some dizzy memories. That effect acts with a streak of cruelty, just like the long streak of cloud hanging pasted across a dome of frozen blue. It almost hurt to look at that far-off sky.
As if someone snatched my joy out of my life, 2 months without any smiling on my face has left me a frozen expression all the while.
Occasionally, in weather of this kind, sitting on a stone, I bent forward, my face in my hands to keep my skull from splitting open. Before long I straightened up and looked up at the dark clouds hanging over the small town called waterloo, thinking of all I have lost in the course of my life: times gone for ever, friends who disappeared, feelings I would never know again.
Memory is a funny thing. When I was in the scene I hardly paid it any attention. I never stopped to think of it as something that would make a lasting impression, certainly never imagined that some days, months, even years later I would recall it in such detail. I didn’t give a damn about the scenery that day. And I have forgotten what I was thinking about then. Every feeling, every thought came back, like a boomerang, to me. And worse, I was in love. Love with complications. Scenery was the last thing on my mind. Now, though, that scene is the first thing that comes back to me. The smell of the grass, the line of the hills: these are the first things, and they com with absolute clarity. Then I feel as if I can reach out and trace them with a fingertip. However, maybe all I am left holding is a background, pure scenery, with no people at the front. Where could all the people and things have disappeared to? How could such a thing have happened? I wanna stop now, admitting it’s true that I can’t even bring back his face—not straight away, at least. I would rather imagine out a fake boy than himself, just like I prefer to the microscopic mole just beneath his face than his figure and hug. It takes time, though, for me to make it clear whether he is still on my mind or not. As the days have passed, the time for his face to appear has grown longer than before. The truth is that what I could recall in 5 seconds all too soon needed 10, then 30, then a full minute—like shadows lengthening at dusk. Someday, I suppose, the shadows will be swallowed up in darkness. Nothing but scenery returns again and again to me like a symbolic scene in a film. Each time it appears, it delivers a kick to some part of my mind. The kicking never hurts me. There’s no pain at all. Just a hollow sound that echoes with each kick and even that is bound to fade one day. Perhaps, I should shut up and keep silent as possible. But I have to write it down. I have to write things down to feel I fully comprehend them. Nothing marked the perimeter of my thought—no fence, no stone curb. My thought was nothing but a hole, a wide-open mouth. Though, the stones of its collar have been being weathered, have turned a strange muddy-white, and would disappear some day.
Everything in the course of my life, given time enough, can be remembered. But I prefer that everything in the course of my life, given time enough, could be forgotten, leaving no trace at all.
lectures end DAY! 今天是课程结束的日子。忙碌的一天结束了第一个学期的课程。然后回家做饭，看电影，聊天。虽然final就在2天之后，却希望能够放慢一些脚步，让自己回味一下这一个学期。
不到3个月前，开始了在waterloo的第一节课。一个学期，忙碌，闲散，疲惫，快乐，忧愁，无助，绝望...所有的情绪交织。回想起来，第一个周末赶很多一点都没有头脑的全英文作业。那个周六的通宵，和老公视频，他看着我写作业，偶尔聊天。到了现在，我仿佛已经独立了很多。
而3个月后的这个时刻是刹那的平静，只是这一刻，定格。
来到加拿大的日子仿佛就是我憧憬的那样一种旅行。到一个陌生的地方，周围都是陌生的同伴。没有人知道我的过去，没有人问我的过去。虽然我曾感受到了某些不适应。生活却是平静。有时候一整天呆在房间看书，看片，烧菜。饭后在房子周围的小路上听歌散步。某个晚上，没事却搭上末班车，静静观察午夜的城市。某天或许和好友出去吃饭，在雪地上打滚。
一切已经发生的，此刻正在进行的，和以后将会到来的，都将记入我关于加拿大的回忆。
昨天看《禅打》，里面一句台词“当你做苦工的时候，不要认为你在做苦工，而是了解自己的过程”。我一直都觉得我是了解这个世界的，唯独不了解自己。或许，我应该改变一下我的视角，用一种接受的眼光看待周围的人和事，而用分析的眼光看自己，了解自己。
像space的博客还有q-zone,和半个多月前申请的校内。校内的东西是写给大家看的，写给从小学到现在身边的每个人看的。q-zone是随便写的，因为妈妈也要看，同学网友都会看。而space仿佛是写给自己，还有和自己灵魂深处相通的伙伴。校内的东西表现的都是自己的成就，好的方面。q-zone是一些杂侃，夹杂几篇郁闷的发泄。而在live space，我的伤口，到伤疤，形成的茧都暴露着。每个人都是由很多侧面组成的。无所谓性格分裂，只是我们都知道见到谁应该说什么样的话。我们都知道在大家高兴的时候不能发扫兴的牢骚，而在心与心交谈的时候不适宜那么没心没肺地开玩笑。
这些时间过去，感到自己的耐心程度比以前大了很多。尤其很明显地知道自己的急性子，便在这个很好的机会氛围之下慢慢改造。等待之中的空白不再使我焦虑，该来的总会来。第一天上课的前一晚很激动。一晃眼，一个学期的课程结束。中间经历了几次考试，出成绩。渐渐，安然了很多。
依然，生活还在继续。 s城 一层秋雨一层凉。眼看着红色的枫叶所剩无几，才发觉到迎面吹来的空气已夹带肃寒。这是熟悉的气息，仿佛那座小城。
那座拥有我整个童年的小城，即使相隔已十多年，仍然被我反复记起。这使我坚信时间的痕迹就像旧铁的锈渍一样，无法被一块橡皮轻巧地擦去。s城，当我从嘴里念叨出这两个字的时候，我生活过的街道，在回忆的镜头下摇晃，展开，然后定格。它像树的一根主干，而沿街生长的人和事，就是枝头的叶子。在我的记忆里，那些叶子，斑驳，湿润，温馨，充满着某些南方小城的气息。 让我想想5路车站旁边那棵树，我不知道是什么树。它紧抵着公园围墙的石壁站着，很受挤迫的样子。只有在高处，它才能尽兴地打开树冠。在阔别小城后的某一天，当我在这棵树下抬头的时候，我不能不想到从前的嬉耍玩闹。想到我童年的生存空间，乃至成长之后爬上面庞的局促神情，以及偶尔绽放的烂漫的笑。 我忘了我是怎么走出那座小城，并开始了漫长的漂泊生活。那年我十岁。从走出小城的那一刻起，我就披上了一层坚硬的盔甲。直到今天，我都相信，有些防御能力是一种奇异的天生就带有的，可以瞬间爆发出来，持久不消退。那天我看到他，一个人在炎夏傍晚的夜市小卖部门前瑟缩着踱步，小心翼翼，生怕踩到自己的影子似的。目光与我相遇的时候，他很快低下头，自责地缩了缩身子。我想注意他的胡须是否刮净，鞋底有没有沾上丁点污泥。两道昏黄的灯光迟缓地交替着，给我带来的是压抑的阴影。我看不清任何东西，除了他瑟缩的身躯。 那是他给我的最后一次拥抱，之后的s城仿佛沉寂，熟悉的街道显得冗长而漫无目的。尤其是每年的夏天，午后知了层层叠叠的叫唤更加使s城感到无所适从。孩子那无法安眠的心试图在闷热中找到属于自己的清凉。找不到的。s城不会再苏醒了。 冬天的那场大雪是关于一个十一岁女孩幸福的注释。我坚决地离开了s城，携带着那个炎夏傍晚的拥抱残留的体温。走出s城，我用一种满足的表情深呼吸，以一个女孩子的视角仰望远处屋脊上的天空。我相信，当时的我一定看见了遥远的事物，未来，足以使我安宁和快乐的一切。我不知道一个易感、忧伤的人，拥有幸福的时间有多久。冬天快得如同一张书页，轻轻地就翻过去了。那一场雪，早在冬天结束之前消融。而那个拥抱的体温，在一场雪的边缘稍作停留，之后就像雪一样归于空寂。 一场细雨的清晨我丢掉了他给我的晴雨娃娃。我把我的童年留在了小城。此后，我再也没有谈到过他。新的生活填空一样很快将我填满，但旧时光是无法忘却的。我无法忘记他，就像我无法忘记5路车站旁那棵不知名的树。之后的很多年，我也没有再去打听他的消息。 s城，一个梦幻的腹地，在3个月前的某一日，再一次呈现在我的面前。被时间一次次摩挲的那条街道，它的光亮逐渐黯淡下去，沧桑的纹理日渐凸现。几近灰白的门墙，砖瓦，老去或者已逝的人们，只有天空依然蓝的透彻。我沿着街道走，在每一个拐角，石板的缝隙，屋檐的草茎，墙壁上某一个人留下的手迹或者划痕上，嗅出往事的气息。s城依然是s城，往事在喧闹中沉潜，却又在一个人的记忆中浮现。我想起了他，他的身影曾经在s城的每一个角落穿梭，那些被他拂拭过的种种细节都隐入苍茫。 想到这里，我的心开始隐隐地酸。抬头向天，阳光在s城的屋檐之间箭簇一样纷纷落下。阳光与阴影，我与他已经相隔在两个世界。 ps:写给陪伴我10年的他 放逐（续） 选择在回家的途中下车,沿着公交路线行走.清爽的空气中,怎能不点一根烟慢慢抽着,让我更加听得清楚大自然的声音.烟雾袅袅弥漫在脸庞,天籁回旋在耳际.终于体会到放手是一件如此轻松的举手之劳,而却能够解脱出超乎想象之外的广阔空间.满地的落叶,泛有生命的气息,并不都是干黄的.有的略带未褪去的红色,有的依然青青,看上去那样的滋腻。没有那般冲击、跌宕、揪痛,取而代之的是平静、从容、淡定.不禁想起一段很久之前读过的诗,
In the winter late night, walking alone into the coffee shop, the smell of milk tea fill all around. The flame in fireplace warms every corner, my heart being divided into two parts. In the movie, the stream of time is flowing, you standing on the other distant side, Nothing could be exchanged for this moment. 顺着心情翻译过来:
冬天的夜晚,一个人走进咖啡馆,奶茶的香味在弥漫
壁炉的火焰很温暖,我的心分成两半 电影里时光流转,你在遥远的彼岸 这一刻，拿什么来换 以前看这首诗,仿佛置身于阴冷与潮湿，黑暗与虚无.而现在意境则大不相同了:回忆将岁月点缀得温馨. 一阵寒气袭来.我不禁打了个颤.到了进家门的时候了. 回头看去,满地的落叶,都是青春的头发. 放逐记忆,应该是不会苍老的东西
而你却渐渐成为幻影,拥过我的怀中不再有我的痕迹
曾经手拉着手，似乎永远不会分开
一转身，我们走到了河的两岸
夜深了，睡不着
我原认为，遗忘的东西是会被珍藏在心脏的不远处,只是淡了，从不会消失
却不曾想到,那些本以为念念不忘的东西却在我们念念不忘的过程中被遗忘
而你终究只是我人生中的一个段落
ps: 梦究竟会不会醒,要看你伤害自己有多深,好比刀子触痛了神经 亲密关系生活有些失重
身体像被掏空了一样
漂浮着，摇晃着
灵魂与躯体分离
无论做什么都会分神
思想无法集中
同时无法沉沉入睡
是我在等待什么，
抑或什么在等待着我？
就是这样
一种茫然
一种未知
一种猜测
一种幻想
在走向幻灭的途中
经历着
理智和情感的碰撞
激情与克制的较量 多事之秋 萧索的秋终于向我显示了它的威力。从我的躯体到心灵，无处不在一种绝望中浸泡着。抽完了第3支烟，实在没有力气做任何事情或者思考任何事情。随它去吧。一切都随它去吧。理智的抉择是自己和自己较劲。结果呢？每件事情都早已注定好了，有了那些无论如何做都殊途同归的必然结果。我又何必多操着一份心。
所以此刻，稍稍感到气定神闲。这样的秋，着实有点偏冷。已经足够让我只能够把心思都放在躲于被窝里取暖，同时取回那点残留的希望。忽然，就是在我思考"秋天总是这样相似地让人伤感"的时候，耳边仿佛飘着FIR的那首《应许之地》，只是多年前听过，而现在的感觉竟与之前如出一辙。一样地孤单和凄凉。
只是，我做不到当血染红天空，却用爱去承受。
看到的是自己的懦弱...... all about me are for youYou're telling me you're just gonna walk out of here and I'm never going to see it again.
Yes, there's a good chance of that. What will happen there is your way of saying. Wish to hell I was with you. Little square burgers, ice cream, we shared.
One cash in your bag, now in my book. Savouring your odor, smelling the aroma of our love. I love you, so much... I miss you, so deeply... Perhaps I should heed the advice from the bottom of my heart.
Retire to calm down and be quiet, listening songs of our past love respectfully Oh, darling, so many happiness, so much communication, I nearly forgot That's all worth cherishing I appreciate your appearance, baby Sort of feeling your kiss.
Completely surrounded by your embrace. I'm begining to get that both of us have been old. We have been old couples. How happy we are! You have a mild bone in your body. Violent, me.
Only with you do I feel peaceful. As if all the life'll be all peaches and cream. In my world, there's no commandments but you. Things other than you don't mean rubbish here. 天空他说让我回去，那里有我的天空。
我说，不。这是一条单行道，我没有回头的机会，也不会回头。 他都已经变了。错误地叫我“小涵涵”。
还好，心中没有涟漪。 生活归于一种平静。就是什么都不想。 而关于他，我很少提及。
自己对自己催眠。
我不会回头。
那个城市中，唯一收容我的只能是自己的影子。 厌恶那个影子。 我的天空。 在我的心里。 稳定地，变化着。 安妮宝贝的文字最近才听说一个什么安妮玫瑰,去年出了书<情殇济南>，除了对她没有产生任何好感之外,倒怀念起了安妮宝贝。
每次安妮宝贝出书都是好久之后,在某个散步的途中拐到书店买回,从来没有如饥似渴。她的文字是一种情愫，经历了，体会了之后自然能够随着时间、季节沉淀，无须刻意定期雕饰。
最怀念的文章还是<暖暖>和<七年>。而关于她的集子，<蔷薇岛屿>买的最值，图片传达给我的信息与本身对文章理解的感觉不太相投，才更加表明了原来安妮宝贝的模样并不是我假想中的“影子”。而始终无法体会<二三事>所叙述的故事，且没有结尾。
紫罗兰-violet 昨天在Sobeys买了个小盆紫罗兰.都纳闷了,自己吃不饱饭还有功夫去搞这些小调调.上次去Sobeys就想买花了,上次小盆的是雏菊,想了想没有买.雏菊对我的印象除了全智贤那双动情地眼睛似乎已经没有其它了.而这次紫罗兰不一样,我喜欢它已经很久了.
从很小的时候就喜欢紫罗兰,无奈家里那边几乎没有,都是一些玫瑰,康乃馨,满天星或者香水百合之类的.那时喜欢紫罗兰完全是一种想象,因为很喜欢紫红色,而紫罗兰又是紫中带红,但是它带的不多,感觉上仿佛更加深沉.后来10岁时候去昆明,第一次见到紫罗兰,仿佛很蔫的样子,便从此觉得这花属于不好养的那种.我并不觉得这是它的高贵--仿佛牡丹,我觉得这样不好养的话,有那么一点做作.随后就再也没有提到过它的,只是偶尔想一想.
这次在Sobeys见到它还真觉得惊讶,我也担心会不会拿回来之后没两天它就over了.但是总是要试试才能证明以前想的是不是正确的,而且确实喜欢它好长时间了,这个机会如果丢掉以后恐怕就没可能了.
紫罗兰的传说(摘自百度)：
据希腊神话记述，主管爱与美的女神维纳斯，因情人远行，依依惜别，晶莹的泪珠滴落到泥土上，第二年春天竟然发芽生枝，开出一朵朵美丽芳香的花儿来，这就是紫罗兰。 紫罗兰原产欧洲南部，在欧美各国极为流行并深受喜爱。它的花有淡淡幽香，欧洲人用它制成香水，倍受女士们青睐。在中世纪的德国南部还有一种风俗，把每年第一束新采的紫罗兰高挂船桅，祝贺春返人间。紫罗兰花语：永恒的美。 短发我的头发越来越长了.Cauchy说我变漂亮了.别上了两个头卡之后,仿佛我回到了小学毕业那时候的模样…原来我真的一点都没有变啊.当然,我会想起yz,生命中的某个角色.终于发现我对他的感情也只是那种怀念小时候的感觉而已,后来的一切一切都是对心灵的挑战和逢场作戏罢了.谁知道呢?可能是周杰伦的<献世>把我弄糊涂了. 对于Cauchy也许算是真感情吧,我没有什么逻辑性很强的证据.和他经历了也正在经历着,喜悦和波折都有.我不知道最后会不会有结果.我的梦想是好高好高的,高到我自己都看不到.觉得既然从小到大花了父母不少钱读书,最起码要把这些钱都赚回来才算能表面还上一部分他们二老的积蓄,觉得这样才好.但是和Cauchy在一起,我不可能也不能去看什么经济的问题.这是矛盾的吧.和Cauchy在一起,如果硬说有原因,那就是感情.我能够完全信任他,而且能够将他作为我心底的支柱.这才叫做人生伴侣吧.也许我曾经和其他男孩谈恋爱的时候都想到过结婚的问题—当然不排除这次也和以前一样,但毕竟能够做真正的人生伴侣的有几人呢? 现在想这些过于早了.但是到了这个年龄,我已经不是10年前那个只知道头发长了就漂亮的小女孩了.10年了,一直都是短发,期间经历了什么全都忘记的差不多了.就像阿哲<爱不留>所唱的“多少恋情回想只剩结局和起头”.生后差不多也是这样的.充斥着的一直都是新的接触,同时不经意地就忘掉了旧人旧事.也许DL,或者其他谁,大概都某个时刻确实在我的心里呆过吧.但是,能一起牵手走过十年,一直互相陪伴从十年之前到十年之后的又有几个呢?
再过一个10年,我大概已经结婚生孩子了吧.我想如果没有什么让我死而复生的事情,我都会一直在这里写东西的.我想.
写下来,就不用脑子去记忆了.多好.
生活就应该简单一点.但是好像总得需要什么东西去帮自己承受.大概人的弱点就在这里. 生活的调调原来Renison的所谓聚餐就是“盒饭，四个人一碗”...呵呵，未免夸张。总的来说能填饱肚子，之后就进入了holiday。爽！ 可是这爽没有持续多久,就有问题浮出水面:我该怎么”爽”?去多伦多,在床上睡它个天昏地暗,啃它一本<calculus>,还是抱本小说巨著一气呵成地读完?What could I do to enjoy "爽"?!大概是已经忘记如何”玩儿”了. 生活的调调正在改变.我再也不会去看着窗外的景物然后庸人自扰地从心底蓦然升出一种情愫,当写下来的时候痛苦地感觉到"Mama, I would rather not be born at all".而KTV或者电影院一类的嗜好,大概就像国内的一些朋友一样渐渐远去,只留下回忆了.现在这样的日子,是对时间的积极地消磨.以前觉得这样生活的人都好从容.一直都有事情做,虽然都是客观要求的事情.没有那种幼稚地没事找事的感觉.还好吧,当我加入了这种行列,发现确实生活充实了不少,简单了许多.和以前相比,生活更加有了那种"单单是生活的味道".至于自己控制的时间看起来少了这个观点,大概源于青春期的叛逆吧. 总之,结束了我在waterloo的第一个阶段.回顾一下,还算不错吧!“尽吾志而不能至者可以无悔矣”所以关于过不过关也就没有什么好担心的了.接下来呢,冲杯热巧克力,吃点蓝莓蛋糕. 庆祝假期的开始! I'm gonna moveHaven't written English post 4 a long time, so, just now, I made the decision to do it today. I have moved most of my luggage to the new room. After I cleaned the room, it seems better. What's bad is the rain. When I came back to the room with my new Samsung printer, it started raining. Worse still, I was lost. Fortunately, a Canadian lady came to offer me a help, and at last I went back. Exhausted, I had to go back to CLV (my room now) and I had the thought of shopping at Dollar Store this afternoon. While I was on my way, it rained again. Worse luck, it was a downpour! Dramatically, I had been caught in the heavy rain for a long time before I remembered the umbrella was in my backpack. Oh, I can do nothing with my torpor! So u know why I am staying here instead of shopping in the mall. Tired, I am very tired! Whereas there r still so many things to do. Some time, I thought of giving up. However, I know I can't. I chose this way and I must stick it out! What I should do now and in the next 2 years is ignore all the negative effects on my mood, so that I could do my study better, and live my waterloo life more comfortable. I remember one statement of Nathaniel Hawthorne “Again and again . . . with the inexorable pertinacity of a child intent upon some object important to itself, did he renew his efforts”. The boy was in fine fettle. I wish I could be, too. I can fell my natural testiness is coming to itself. It's not others' fault. It comes from my unpeaceful heart. My life always links to something. I say it's addicted to the outer space. Idealistically, all things in the world have their origins in people's ideas. I agree with it; moreover, it doesn't run afoul of science. I have been to the room and stayed there for one or two hours. It is so quiet that I am afraid I will feel lonely. Actually, before I came here, I had never been frightened by loneliness. Just 3 days ago, one classmate asked me whether I would feel lonely in the condition that I live alone with the strange guys, and I told him "absolutely no". But now, I am not sure. At all events, I chose it and I must fight for it. So, when I chose waterloo I also picked up the loneliness and pains as bonus. In this circumstance, there is no choice but strive and do fighting all through. With this conception in my heart, how dare anything get in my way? good or bad, who knows, who caresDon't know why I felt disgusting when I saw the beautiful words on my former post in msn space; perhaps, because that displayed my hypocritical character once again. They quoted one of Marguerite Duras’ novels, and I had been in love with them deeply. But when, when did I lose the passion, and the love? Now, I even feel it is so nauseous, so lousy. What am I thinking about?
Things changed; everything has changed. They will be changing in the future, between now and future. Things will have changed at the end of next second, the next second; next minute, the next minute. I can’t control them; I won’t control them. I like it!
Yes, I like changing. Changes can let you know everything is just foam, just joke, no more than air, less than air—everything is nothing! Changes can show you that your body is the truth in the world, and the unique one! Rather than love or friendship, only what is beside you is real. So I believe what I touch, what I hear. That’s all my life.
So it’s simple, isn’t it? I like it. All things in the world are complicated by hallucination, people confused by all kinds of brainwashing. Therefore, finding one goal and fighting for it is urgent, just one goal! Then, concentrate on the only one goal and fight for it, forgetting all the things—all the past, overlooking the future—it depends on now. This is the rudiment of simple life. Next step, it is up to your nature. If you are not quiet congenitally, then you have no access to simple life, and vice versa.
Whether I match up to simple life is not up to me. I just keep trying and trying. Craziness nearly drove me mad and all the past things are so long behind that I can take them not mine. What I own is today and don’t talk to me anything else.
I won’t love Faye Wong any more. It’s early 3 months since I woke up to the long refuse to her songs. Just the same with all above, the things all passed. Her songs are past songs and she is my past superstar.
After I quitted smoking, I have been escaping missing it to the best of my abilities. I depend on the environment to help me get off the habit. Maybe it shows that I am a little dastard, but what I care is the outcome. Cigarette-- ESSE, 555, CAMAL, MARLBORO, and MORE, my love, are all past. Oddly, only talking about them, my eyes are swelled with tears. So ridiculous!
So that’s me, who came in Canada after indulging for many years. Maybe I will talk about something past just as one story or another person’s affair to have fun—rights reserved—and I will see you all here.
Good luck, my friends. |
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