Once 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 15^th 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 16^th 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.

After 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.

 

       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。

郁闷地失眠2个月了。本来今天要早睡的。发现日志能写了就写一篇。

       一个学期转眼就过。回忆起来自己好像什么都没做。说学英语也没学，说学理科也就just so so。有时候想自己是不是太贪心，得了满分还在这里发牢骚是不是矫情。但是的确有压力，谁知道我的final是不是还是满分呢？输在最后才是真的输。。。

        好久好久，忘记了文字。有时候想，习惯了笔纸的我如何将心中情愫诉之笔头。加拿大买不到墨水，我带来的钢笔都还原封不动躺在礼品盒里。观看窗外，电脑已经逐渐取代了笔头。书法成为了一种艺术。想起“看字如看人”这句话，仿佛感觉是另外一个时代的事情。

       有太多的不适应一下子扑面袭来，让我身处异乡的前4个月身体已经有点摇晃。曾经某个时刻，我忘记了自己到底是谁，我的过去未来仿佛都是遥远到另外一个星球。4个月后的今天，和issac一起逛街，一起聊天。相比较之前，我们仿佛都习惯了，适应了加元的物价，适应了自己烧饭。只是谈到回国，会模棱两可，2年注定撑不下去的－－至少，我们保证不了能够一直撑到2年后才回国。

       我感觉还好。除了成绩方面有些力不从心，心绪方面还是杂乱一些，整体还是好的。生活已经乱了有一段时间了，需要好好打理一下子才行。所以假期也就珊珊到来。还有不到3周，我就进入了寒假休息。最近看书也不是很多。除了一本杜拉斯的《直布罗陀水手》，中文版，国内带来的。为了英语，我大概需要“背叛”我的文字一段时间了。出国之前，有谁告诉过我，大作家都是中西文化结合才写出好文章的。我也不求什么了。希望自己来到加拿大没有白走一遭。

      生活继续着。

Test

        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

        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,

 

 

 

 

    苏，你不会听到这些。你听到的大海的声音，是有生命力的。是幻觉中的。而我听到的声音，是属于死亡的。是真实的。

 

    铁轨延伸在长满野草的空地上，远处，是盛开的虞美人，在风中轻轻招摇。天空这样的蓝。有一段旧日的时光被凝固在此地。

 

   在赤道炎热漫长的夏季旅途上，两个女人的邂逅。她们都已经过了25岁，独自旅行，忽略过往和历史。两个人绝口不提。

 

    整整一个巴士车的鬼佬里，唯一的中国女人。脸上有长期离群索居的流离生活的痕迹。

 

她的旅途注定只是一条漫无边际的道路。随时可以停留。随时可以失踪。

有时候我们都这样的伤心，但从不表达。就如同我们从不说爱。从不。爱是被封闭被禁忌被拖延被搁置的。这样的爱，是我手里唯一的救赎。所以我被我的罪吞噬。

 

    苏说，有时我感觉自己和这个世界没有任何关联，但后来明白，那也许是太沉溺于此。亦或已结合其中而感觉困顿。

 

Long time no look back on the past events. When recalling them tonight, I found they all faded. Time has alleviated all my sufferings, and it watered the happiness down at the same time. In the end, it is just memory that is left there, with some inexplainable feelings, mixing up with a little regret, a bit of sorriness, and some relief.

I promise the same thing will happen later; and I will feel relieved as always. Too much load makes ppl. feel tired (of life). So that's pretty good, isn't it? That's what we get from time in return for so much thought bestowed upon life.