Youth Notes

I have changed, become so strange, so unreasonable.I'm obsessed with incompleteness.

I tore off the cover.Every time I get a book, the first thing I do is tear off the front and back covers.Instead of cutting with a knife and ruler, tear it by hand.It was torn with a squeak, a slap, and it was not torn slowly, but it was torn off with a snap, and it was torn cleanly and thoroughly, just like Van Gogh cut off his ear with a knife, I felt extremely happy .Looking at the incomplete new book in my hand, I feel so beautiful, so flavorful, so kind, and at the same time, I feel a lot of love and affection.

I like waste paper, all kinds of waste paper in strange shapes and colors.Tear off those neat and beautiful papers, tear off the rules, that's the paper I want.One corner was wet with water, one half was curled, some were stained with orange juice, some were old and turned yellow and brown, and some were grainy and rough to the touch.Candy wrappers, matchbox paper, paper that has been burnt around by fire.All art, all treasures.I have a lot of these papers in my drawer.I smile as soon as I open the drawer and see them, smiling tenderly.I use them cautiously, use them to write a few lines of poems, a few lines of lyrics, write Wen Ziqing's name, write I love you, write Wen Ziqing I miss you, want to hug you, and kiss you.Some papers have been kissed, some have been shed with tears, some have been crumpled from repeated fondling, and some have been carefully folded.They are a group of angels, the petals scattered by the angels, the round and waning moons, the lights, and the sound of rainy nights.It is some beautiful eyes, many sighs, the smell of Wen Ziqing's body, the smell that makes me weep with intoxication.I admire them and love them.Their ultimate fate is the same: reduced to ashes.

There is a big moon cake box in my little house, sometimes it is round, sometimes it is square.I'll have to replace it in a while because it's so blacked out and the fire has made it so dirty.My moon cake box, my brazier, they devour my incomparably beautiful scraps of paper, devouring my heart.The orange and red flames ate up and devoured them as soon as they jumped up, and consumed and burned my heart.gone.All the moods are gone, all those happy and sad, longing and loving, bliss and sorrow, all the twists and turns of deep love and love, they are caught by the fire, and before they can jump, they turn red Brown and black, it will turn to ashes immediately, faster than the speed of light.Those notes are so small, so fragile, even though I wrote on them the unbearable weight of life, it still turned to ashes in an instant.I was crying, laughing, heartbroken and suffering, and sweet and hearty.I was weeping quietly, admiring the red fire and black ash, and seeing those things that tortured me to the point of not knowing what to do with them were so cleanly and thoroughly destroyed, what a pure beauty, how pure The happiness is like being in heaven.This brazier makes my heaven, it sings the red hymn, peace, tranquility, peace.That's not death, it's return.At this time, I am the purest. Purity means emptiness, nothing, nothing.Nothing is happiness.It's heaven.

I like fallen petals, dead leaves, and branches that are about to weather. I pick them up, put the petals and dead leaves in books and diaries, and play with the dead branches for a long time.That dead branch is what I can't let go of the most. I can't keep it, and I don't want to throw it away.After I put down the petals and fallen leaves, I will be with it for a while.I really want to write a poem to it, praising its beauty, its loose and dry skin that peels off the branches and will fall off a piece when touched, it is so beautiful, I almost love them.I love them, have always loved them.When I was young, I used to carry a basket on my back and hold an iron rod to pick up leaves near the party school one mile away. Those golden, yellow, red fallen leaves, and those fallen branches are my friends.I spent the whole morning or afternoon there strung leaves, picked up dead branches, and carried them home with my sister who went to school nearby after school.What a nice-smelling fallen leaves and dead branches, what bright colors they are, and they are always so obedient, so friendly, and so intimate, they accompany me day after day, year after year.

I love this quirky deadwood, it reminds me of cooking as a kid.I especially like to burn mountain grass. Burning straw is boring, it just makes a muffled noise, and there are handfuls of dense smoke coming out.The mountains and grass are different. They beeping tough and bright in the stove, and they made a good smell of mountain wildness.The flames are bursting vigorously, like brilliant flowers blooming on the grass stalks. They not only bloom with beeping sounds, but also fly in all directions. The flying fire is so beautiful.I also like to burn firewood, I am especially good at building firewood, I can build them into a good shelf, use a small handful of straw as a starter to make it burn, and the clean fire will be full The whole stove turned the big black hole into golden yellow orange red orange red.After a while, there was a crisp crackling sound.So beautiful.It is a magnificent world and a vigorous revolution.And coal stoves, I like coal-burning stoves, the holes in the coals turn from black to red, the red fire sweeps around those small holes, twists and turns, like the sunlight on the water surface flickering and dancing under the bridge Like, they flicker and dance softly and ardently around the holes in the coal.

This dry branch reminds me of fire, a red, clean, warm and warm fire, so majestic and touching.I used to give Wen Ziqing such branches, dead leaves and petals, just like giving her beautiful candy wrappers, they are so beautiful, I want to find another person to appreciate its beauty, to share what I get from them happy.The person who shared this is of course the person I love.

I want her to share, to share everything.Everything, everything to her, everything to her.So I just wrote those notes, wrote many, many letters, and wrote journal entries.I don't know why I am so obsessed, I am addicted to a kind of telling, telling everything, not to people, but to everything in the world, just like I am desperately trying to tell the world now.

I was there talking to her, to the world, and kept talking.There are too many things I want to say, and my heart is too full. I say it euphemistically, enthusiastically, sadly or joyfully, the world is too big, there are too many things, and I have so many feelings , so much that I want to die without talking.It is she who is in this world, because she is in this world, this world has become an incomparably miraculous world, it has become a big treasure house, a big treasure house that I can't dig out no matter how hard I dig, it shakes my heart , it makes me agitated, makes me obsessed, makes me not know what to do, makes my whole body and soul unable to stop for a second.I can't stop telling, I can't tell endlessly.

I made a mess of my room, deliberately stacked books, messed up the folded quilt, put pillows on the wrong side, and threw clothes on the bed.One piece in the east and one piece in the west.Take down a crossbar of the bookshelf, not take it out, but knock it, until there is a crooked gap. , leaning there, looking at me, they are leisurely and comfortable.Very freehand.Very comfortable.

I don't want to change clothes and go to bed.I don't have pajamas, and I don't want pajamas.I slept with my clothes on, and I wore the same clothes to school and to bed, unless I was wearing a skirt.In summer, I wear a vest to sleep, the kind of white vest men wore back then.I don't have a corset, I don't wear a corset, I barely have breasts.I am open-minded and open-minded. On weekdays, I wear a white vest and a top, and that's it until I go to college.I was wearing a white vest or the clothes I wore to school, and I stretched out my arms and legs to form a big character, as if I was resting my head on a green mountain and embracing the earth, sleeping comfortably.This is the most beautiful sleeping position, the most ideal sleeping position.

Probably because I have too many strange treasures. After reaching a certain age, every time I go back, I can find miracles in those small houses of a few square meters.

Many, many years later, when I was nearly 40 years old, I actually found a lock of hair while cleaning out old things, a lock of hair in an envelope.The hair, it was still jet black, soft and smooth.I forgot when it was cut, it should be when I was in college, my hair was not short, I always had short hair in middle school.There was not a word in the envelope, not a single sheet of paper.Nothing but hair.Why the hair was cut, why it was put in the envelope, what is the background and story of that lock of hair, I don't know.

I explore the world with strange tentacles.Because I suffer, because I love, because I can't help loving, because I love so much that I don't know what to do.I don't know how to live.I don't know why I miss Wen Ziqing so much, why I want to hug her and kiss her, why I am always so sensitive and always cry, why I cry when I miss her, why I want to cry when I see the wind and the moon, "it "What is it, just love?What is love?friendship?or love?How can there be love between the same sex?So why do two people who have friendship think of kissing?I didn't know, didn't know, didn't know, so I became a weird person, someone who was always known only to me but could not understand myself.

Will I be as stupid as Yining one day?Sometimes I wonder in trepidation, maybe it will.However, even if I want to become like that, I can't help it, and I have nothing to do with myself.

I lived in such a weird way, happy and miserable, no longer like a normal child.

Wen Ziqing likes and fears me like this. She thinks I'm amazing and interesting.She wonders how my mind turns, how I always come up with some weird and happy tricks, how I can always surprise her, and sometimes worry about whether there is something wrong with me, I am so different from others up.She always said I was an innocent fool, an innocent silly child.With me she became a fool too, a madman, and we were both madmen, two madmen who were too happy to die.When we are not in pain or awkward, we are a perfect world blended together, a world where the world in front of us disappears completely, leaving only the two of us.

However, I know that most of the time, she is a silent and sad person than me. She is hot and cold, erratic, and my fanaticism makes her wonder what to do with me.She snubbed me and asked me to study quietly. When I really "snubbed" her, and when I became half dead, she would appear in front of me again, looking at me with incomparable tolerance, apology and warmth. Look at me, a silly, stupid kid.She said I made her happy and made her miserable.She said that the world would be a dark and hateful world without me.She is always listening to another song by Lu Nianzu:

想要 潇洒 地 挥一挥衣袖

却 拂 不 去 的 影子

So I scratched your name in the wind

Missing always starts after breaking up

想要 将 你 身影缠绵入 诗

诗句 却 成 的 酒汁

You can't help but want to taste it

Because longing always starts after breaking up

Wen Ziqing said that she lingered my figure into poems and turned my name into a bitter wine.Does every girl turn a person's figure into a poem?In the end, you have to drink the sour and bitter wine by yourself?