What is literature?
Is it pretense, is it rhetoric or lotus flower? Is it necessary for people to obtain comfort through falsehood?
What do poems and articles do? Are they like the beauty of a bird, like the ripples of water?
Literature is ultimately not a skill. It is the study of memory, the study of time, and the study of imagination. It always faces the past, but leads to the future. It is the depth and breadth that the human heart can reach. It not only records, but also participates in creation. It accumulates civilization and creates civilization.
Civilization does not always progress over time. It often collapses, is messy, filthy, and goes backwards.
After a few years, will anyone find it funny, but just a simple walk, but writing so much boring text?
Outside the window, a child, about two or three years old. He shook the flag of the restaurant with the power of sucking milk, and lay all over the thin flagpole. When the flag moved, he looked up and grinned.
In the sun, he was so young, so tender, so cute.
At this moment, I was so greedy on earth. I and him are not close to each other, but how much I hope he grows into a useful person, a meaningful person, and not like many lives, just living it again.
I ate mutton sauerkraut and large bowl of noodles as much as possible. I don’t know when and where the next meal will be.
Thanks for the food.
The people I met, all walkers, urban and rural, men, women, old and young, were holding mobile phones, looking down from time to time, and some were watching.
People have a virtual look of trance, as if not present. Not here, not at this moment, not this time.
Everywhere-in the scenes of urban life, in the scenes of rural life, in the scenes of family life. Think about it, it’s really creepy.
This is another falsehood. People are technologicalized and materialized. Human physical indulgence, human soul is free, and even attached to things, wandering in the virtual world.
The network objectively promotes human contacts, but many of them are ineffective.
I have been a literary public account for six years. I decided to face the truth and return to the scene.
I resumed handwriting and even decided to resume writing letters.
My records are synchronic. Some thoughts are juxtaposed, and I can’t tell which one comes first.
When I sat down to rest, some bugs came to me. Flying, slow; crawling, slow.
The hand that reached out and slapped stopped. It’s winter, and they want to rely on the heat in my body for a little bit of residual life.
Let them stay for a while.
When you leave, shake your clothes and dare not brush. The worms are thin and small, and they break up with a single brush.
There are birds flying high, as small as black spots, and they cannot be distinguished. I see birds like mustard, and birds see me like mustard. My walking time is not worth a moment in the long river of human beings. My walk is not self-salvation, not self-punishment, not self-certification, and I cannot show off. It also makes no sense. I search for meaning in the meaninglessness of life.
What is literature?