Shuangcheng

Lorraine is always writing a diary, which Chengcheng can't understand.

The conspiracy, evil deeds, and hidden desires of the people in the story are discovered by people from their diaries and made public, the truth comes to light, good and evil are clear, will anyone really do this in reality?Leave such fragile loopholes and flaws for yourself, waiting to be killed by one blow.Are they so eager to vent, timidly trying their best to pretend to be impenetrable and blameless, but they are so brave to face the real and ugly self, hypocritical and sincere, and reveal all the secret things they have done in their lives? Put it into writing.Their lives are so repressed and forbearing, they keep silent forever, but they can open their hearts to a piece of paper that has no credibility at all.

But if the diary is a fake account carefully planned for the world to see, then what is the significance of his life being recorded?Who cares about such a delicate and boring life?

Who is his diary written for, who is he going to talk to?Did he want someone to see it, even at the risk of being exposed?

Chengcheng once asked himself how they could tell each other apart in a crowd.Just at the moment when the eyes meet, can you feel all the infinite overlapping thoughts of each other?It's as if they exchanged eyes, merged blood, shared heartbeats, and at that moment understood all the waves of each other's mood, disgust for life, and love for the world.You and I are allies fighting side by side, comrades who share life and death, two stars attracting each other in the vast universe, like nerve impulses responding to each other, gradually returning to the same frequency, and emitting a harmonious hum.

What are we holding on to?What kind of power are we fighting against?They can easily erase our existence, our laughter, our tears, our love, everything will never exist.They can make us say anything that betrays everything, even our own existence.

You can do with me what you want, but you can't hurt my truth. — Gibran, "The Voice of the Poet"

If they could make me stop loving you, that would be real betrayal. — George Orwell, Nineteen Eighty-Four

At least that's what Lorraine thought before his door was smashed open by iron-clad boots and thrown into a prison wagon.

Lorraine woke up sharply in the chaos, his eyes were stinging, and a blood-red halo burst into his eyes. It took him a long time to understand that he was in the interrogation room.The interrogation lamp, which was so dazzling as if it was about to burn the skin of a person, hit his face directly, and he lowered his eyes cowardly and timidly, as if he was trying in vain to cover himself with a small hiding place with his eyelashes. Therefore, he tried hard to shrink himself into the depths of the cold and hard chair, but he had nowhere to hide.He was so tired, dizzy, blurred vision, circles of pale blood-red halo spread around, he was drowsy, sleepiness flooded him like a tide, he almost sat upright with his eyes open. Can fall asleep, but is always violently shaken awake at the moment when he is about to fall asleep, but in this very short moment, he can have a dream, and in this moment of dream, he has experienced a century as long, brilliant and cruel Dynasties rise, are overthrown by bloody revolutions and angry crowds, and are followed by even bloodier restorations, endlessly.

At the beginning, he wanted to scold, fight, escape, and make a confession, but later he wanted to beg for mercy, beg, and cry.But now, he just wants to sleep, at least when he sleeps, he will have a chance to dream, whether it is a good dream or a nightmare, he desires and accepts it all, as long as he can temporarily escape from this place, even if it is false, as long as he is not here, as long as he escapes here.

However, those people would not give him a chance to plead and beg for forgiveness, he would not even have a chance to speak, they would not charge him a single crime, they would not accuse him, he wanted to confess the imaginary crime in order to seek forgiveness. There is no way to get rid of self-defilement, he began to fabricate non-existent crimes for himself and others, confessed, wantonly slandered, accused everyone, but these only made him circulate in his mind to convince himself, not even a single word could Allowed to speak, he burst into tears under the glare and shame.It seems that they tortured him not to make an example, to rectify, to purify, to propagate, to obliterate, to assimilate, they tortured him as if they were merely torturing him.Fear, fatigue, despair, and physical pain made him on the verge of collapse, or in other words, he had already collapsed.

Why are you putting up with all this?

They may have regarded themselves as lonely heroes in their hearts, but in the face of pain, they are all cowards.

The dream was real, but he did not see his own activity and existence.The dream is his mind itself. The events in the dream surge in from the outside, brutally smashing his defense line, a solid spiritual defense line, driving straight in, destroying his life and the civilization fortress he built in his life. Razed to the ground, turned into scorched earth. —Thomas Mann, "Death in Venice"

Suddenly, the space-time picture in front of him was distorted like a tear. The steel needle torture bed in the exile place was stained with filth and would carve bloody patterns on people. The lights, the precise and rigid devices all disappeared, and what Chengcheng saw was a scene of brutality and madness.

Are those people, the people who interrogated Lorraine, the same people in the city where the free birds were killed?Chengcheng couldn't tell the difference, their faces were all the same numb and indifferent, as if they were painted with poor brushstrokes.They gathered together in a daze, prostrate on the ground, lifeless, a sound seemed to rise from the ground, like a bone-made wind instrument from a distant and mysterious tribe, calling for something, sharp and deep, haunting The scattered wisps are like honey-soaked piss, lusciously and shamelessly seducing people, sweet and terrifying, suffocating.People began to writhe like something pierced into their spinal cords, like crawling reptiles with clattering shells, crawling up from the ground in a strange and twisted posture, the corners of their mouths were as mad as if they were about to tear their heads And the silent smile, marching gongs, drums and horns sounded, driving this group of people into madness, like a group of pagans who have lost the pain of their bodies. This kind of madness is a contagious disease, which intensifies.

Lorraine was no longer imprisoned, but he still felt extremely heavy on his back, as if he was carrying a cross.Those people are getting more and more crazy, like clowns in a carnival, with blurred faces and chaotic oil paints, gathered around the towering flames, dancing, shaking the bells in their hands tirelessly, slapping their waists with animal skins without rhythm. They waved their torches indiscriminately, and laughed out of breath. The chaotic rhythm of the drums caused their heart rhythms to become arrhythmic, and the rhythmless heartbeat made them even more crazy. Foam was flying, his eyes were dull and scattered, chaotic and ugly.Cheng Cheng felt a sickening stench of flesh surging, with the breath of decay and death.

Everything is decaying, dark tides are surging, endless cages, worms are crawling over the statues in the fountains, those gorgeous streets and castles are collapsing, the bricks and stones of Sodom are falling into the fire of hell, as far as the eye can see, All is crumbling, and there is nothing but this devouring void of darkness, and the screaming people, and this fire, which they pour with blood, like a feast of wild beasts, and a wicked rite of summoning heretic gods, who hold The shining sharp knife, laughing wildly, stabbed and slashed the demons in the void, and then stabbed, slashed, and licked the stinky sticky blood oozing from the wound on the sweaty skin.

But they never killed the beast in their hearts.

How can they be unkind and laugh.

Suddenly, he heard the thin voice of a little girl, the low voice of a middle-aged man, the voice of a baby boy, the voice of an old woman... All kinds of voices are intertwined, calling for something, overlapping voices, becoming more and more uniform, Like an unconscious chorus.

There was a commotion in the crowd, which gradually subsided into a neat buzzing sound. All the identical faces turned to Lorraine, and they all uttered low-pitched howls like wild beasts courting a mate, which made the limbs weak and the whole body numb. The invisible boundary echoed back again. They gasped, groaned, gasped, flattered, and stared at Lorraine with silent and strange smiles with malicious intentions, shaking their bodies suggestively, twisting like insects. Moving their limbs and retreating in all directions, they made a way for him, leading to the campfire, they encouraged him, hinted at him, and tempted him.

We are fascinated by the repulsive, and each day we descend a step toward hell, passing through the fetid darkness without fear. —Baudelaire, "To the Reader"

Chengcheng felt extremely fearful, but at the same time, he also felt longing. Desire and fear were like twins whose umbilical cords were intertwined, bobbing up and down in the amniotic fluid.He felt a trance-like delirious pleasure, his vision blurred and his eyes were red and burning.He felt degraded, self-loathing, self-defeating, self-defeating, and he realized suddenly with horror and disgust that all this chaos, all this ugliness, was himself.He is the heretics who scream and eat and drink blood, he is the flesh they gnaw and tear and devour, he is the steaming meat they trample on...he is about to step out to join their madness and debauchery He is about to take that step towards sinking, he is about to take that step towards the abyss.

Chengcheng.He heard Yi Lushen calling him.Come to me and take my hand.

Being chronically repressed is no excuse to double down on indulgences at every opportunity.

Chengcheng turned around and looked at Yilushen with tears streaming down his face.The latter came up and hugged him with a tolerant heart.

Lorraine seemed to be bewitched and lost his mind, staggering, walking towards the bonfire with blank eyes.Flames, flames expand infinitely, devouring all borders, leaving only flames in the whole world.

The rising flames licked^lick^ his clothes and hair, ashes were flying, the skin was peeling off, the blood was burning, and a smile floated on Lorraine's face.Chengcheng wasn't sure he saw it clearly, maybe it was just an illusion caused by the flames and heat distorting the air, and also distorting the sight and the picture. After all, burning was so painful, how could he be smiling.

The author has something to say:

When writing this part, I was listening to Marilyn Manson's into the fire, sweetdreams, tourniquet, Holzer's takemetochurch, heathens, and a bunch of Anna's songs, but the feeling of this part is more suitable for Anna's The Conqueror Worm Ⅱ, recommended matching edible.

I always remember that during the summer vacation in 2014, when I watched the MV of takemetochurch, I burst into tears. At that time, she left me for the first time. A person who has no common preferences and will not try to understand my preferences, a person who does not have what I like, why would he just like her.

I'm in love with someone I don't identify with.

Later, a friend said to me that the partner you need is someone who will hold your hand tightly in the midst of the storm, not the storm you have to deal with yourself.

Still later, I heard "Seven Friends".

Who has taken care of my feelings, treated me tenderly, and kissed my wounds.Who ever minded me was also uncomfortable, stood up for me, and touched my hand.

Maybe I was too greedy, and I always felt that she never loved me at all.

I can't remember that I also have the right to love.

Leave when it's time to leave. Everyone deserves to be treated tenderly. It's better to treat yourself better than to keep the kindness you are doing to others.