Who killed the sorrow

  When modern people mention the word “sorrow”, they often look with contempt. It seems that material civilization is highly developed, and “sorrow” has to pack up and leave like a long-term laborer in the old days. As a result, what we see is a picture of life that publicizes various worldly desires. People seem to have let go of the shackles that have imprisoned them for thousands of years, jumping and shouting ecstasy, as if they have stepped into a paradise of human freedom. excited.
  Sorrow receded like a tide. Without sorrow, people don’t even have dreams. The night without dreams is so chaotic, and the dawn without dreams is so pale.
  Maybe because of my special life experience, I like to be sad so much. I have never regarded sorrow as a synonym for decadence and decay. On the contrary, true sorrow is a feeling of compassion and compassion, which can make people grow wisdom and strength.
  The growth of sorrow needs soil, and my soil is that vast frozen soil. It’s the crowing of a few cocks in a lonely place, or a beam of moonlight reflecting on the white snow. Sorrow quietly floated into my heart in such an environment.
  An old man I know who is good at telling ghost stories said in the spring that if there is nothing, it will be gone, but the pipe he smoked is still there, which makes people sad; lightning and strong wind destroyed a birch forest that was as bright as a candle, and since then The wild flowers there are less blooming, how can it not make people sad; the melons and fruits in the garden field that I have been looking forward to all summer, when they are about to ripen, are killed by early frost, how can it not make people sad; Now, the river is sealed off, the ship has stopped sailing, and I will not see the ship sailing into the dock for half a year, how can it be sad!
  The folklore, the bleakness of the world, and the vicissitudes of nature I have seen and heard are like three strings. They twisted together and played the melody of “sorrow”. So at the very beginning of my creation, my brushstrokes naturally extended to this sad sky, and I especially appreciate those works that exude a sense of sadness. I found that Sorrow especially likes to settle in Russia, where the forests and grasslands seem to exude a breath of yeast, which can ferment the mediocre life and present a moving poetic luster, thus piercing the human spiritual world. Their art, music and literature are all filled with melancholy. Such as Repin’s “Volga River Tracker”, Tchaikovsky’s “Sorrowful Symphony”, Aitomatov’s “White Ship”, Turgenev’s “White Prairie”, Astafyev’s “Fish King” and so on, they are broad and deep, desolate and vast, like ancient pastoral songs, cold and warm. So when I heard the news of the disintegration of the Soviet Union, when many people around the world were worried about the future of this nation, I once told people that Russia is immortal and it will recover! The reason is: this is a nation with great sorrow.
  Human compassion is wrapped in sorrow, and art without compassion will not have vitality. Sorrow is the dewdrops on the flowers, a moist and brilliant sunset sprinkled on the water, and a contented sigh from the depths of love. But in this era, life is filled with either howls of inflated desires or insensitive indifference. The sorrow at this time wanders like a lost dog. Life seems to be changing with each passing day, and new information comes in one after another, almost to the point of explosion. People are afraid of being labeled as outdated and conservative, and are tired of recognizing new things and coping with new trends. As a result, our footsteps became mechanical and slow among the glass curtain walls of skyscrapers that were constantly pulled up, our eyes became dry and poor in the fireworks of various celebrations, and our hearts were informed of what happened in the world at the first time. When there is news from any corner, it becomes dazed and thirsty.
  In times like these, we seem to have no sorrow left. The dense life squeezes our dreams, and the new-seeking dog chases us to the point of exhaustion. We have realized our material dreams and gained dizzying so-called spiritual enjoyment, but our hearts are like a fruit floating in the autumn wind, gradually losing moisture and sweet aroma, becoming dry and shriveled. Because of blindness, we fall into a spiritual dilemma, lose ourselves, imprison ourselves in a cage, and bind ourselves on a corpse bed. The life of art that exudes sorrow has passed away from us.
  Who kills sorrow? Is it the hawking in the marketplace, or the flickering neon lights dimming the stars? Is it the psychedelic atmosphere exuded by more and more dazzling high-tech products, or the billowing dust produced by the disasters of nature?
  We are blocked from the green mountains and green waters, we don’t hear the breeze, the singing of birds, the bright moon and colorful clouds, and the soil of sorrow is lost inch by inch. The works of art that we create that are labeled as art are either empty and boring, or confusing and suspenseful.
  Those seemingly plump things that claim to be close to the life of the lower class exude a manly vulgarity. We no longer have sorrow in our hearts, so although we live a lively life, our hearts are empty; we seem to live a prosperous life, but what we hold in our hands is nothing but an empty bowl for masturbation.

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