What to do when I can't walk anymore: lie down🤮😷 (Mental state good: ready to slack off anytime)
About
Based in: Japan · Yokohama. In the tragedy Shakespeare created from historical materials, Macbeth reached its peak. Height 173cm Weight 57kg Gemini
InterestsModerate / Experienced / 10–20 yrs
Looking forIn real life
Dynamics
The world tries to chew me up, only to find I melt in the mouth🌚
Today while proofreading middle school reading questions, I discovered an interesting thing. Thinking back to when I was a teenager, my wish then was to be able to read all kinds of articles and books. I neatly cut out all the reading articles I liked from exercise books. The most impressive time, I cut out an essay called 'Broken Beauty'. Gorgeous diction, unique insights. Another time, I cut out a modern poem, probably Zheng Chouyu's 'Mistake'? 'I passed through Jiangnan, the face waiting in the seasons like a lotus blooming and falling.' Many years later, I still remember the poems and essays I carefully cut out in my middle school days. But back to today, I still never thought the bullet She fired more than a decade ago would hit my brow today again.😭
7.02 Yesterday on the way back from shooting at No.1 Lawn, I met a mother and daughter on the subway. The mother carefully pushed her daughter's wheelchair; the girl's tender face clearly flashed a hint of displeasure, her hands tightly holding both sides of the wheelchair. Is she also complaining in her heart about the unfairness of fate? Like how I sometimes complain about fate's unfairness when I see others' thick hair. The passersby coming and going in the transfer passage may also sting her already disabled legs. I pretended to glance casually, and I thought of that autumn — Shi Tiesheng said after his 'legs were paralyzed, my temper became violent and unpredictable'. I thought the world's brokenness was only this much, but in a blink I lost my mother too. Hate. Hate that when I had a mother I didn't know to cherish her, using my own illness to torment innocent family. Just like me frantically cutting my hair and roaring at the mirror, not knowing I was punishing not myself, but the person who loved me most. May the world have no more incurable diseases, no more poverty and war💫
Sending you a touch of grassland green🍃
I've always been unable to get out of the huge gap between the past and the present~
I repeatedly try to be a 'person', but every time I end in failure…
Past s: I have the ability to make you a better self🙇 Current s: I can't be responsible for these, but you must obey🤦♀️ 🤣🤣🤣
Successfully completed a job for three months and eight days Obtained the first key to becoming a 'person'🤣
The older I get, the more I realize the importance of land. The old saying always goes 'fallen leaves return to roots'. But where is the root? While parents are alive, life still has a place to come from… Thinking of the TV dramas I often watched when young, there were always travelers far from home who liked to put a handful of hometown yellow earth in a dark brown clay jar. At the time I thought it very pretentious… Only now do I understand what homesickness and timidity near home really mean~
Didn't expect anyone still looks at the photos I take Then I'll post one more🙈
You stand on the bridge watching the scenery, The person watching the scenery watches you from the building. The bright moon decorated your window, You decorated another's dream.
Life has many forks north and south, you go toward Xiaoxiang and I toward Qin
Autumn goes and winter comes, all matters rest, idle egrets leisurely accompany the passenger boat
“I know you are no longer 20, but your half-life's achievements are equal to your age, or even exceed it — what regrets do you still have? You are not a silent, unknown person.”
Light snow today❄️
I saw a girl sitting in a wheelchair Her hair is very good I think I envy her thick hair She envies my sound legs And I can't help shedding tears
People ask me why my demands on myself are low I say, in order to often feel happy The new year is coming soon I hope I can be healthier and happier😆
I can never forget that night when I stood by the roadside in a strange place in heavy rain, only hoping to find a house to live in. Many years later I thought of this again. Probably because I'm about to move house again. In that small broken house with peeling walls, I made the first meal of my life. I clearly remember it was a plate of long beans stir-fried with eggs. The afterglow of the sunset would not shine into my small dark house with little light, but the sky rendered by rosy clouds reflected on my egg liquid, and it actually gave off a 'bright light'. From then on I moved through many cities, beginning a repeated and long journey of moving. The range of my moving grew bigger and bigger, from across districts, across cities, to across provinces. At first I often worried about moving; it sounded really troublesome. Because I often bought books, and the weight of the books grew heavier and heavier, making one have to believe knowledge is indeed tens of thousands of jin. Later I gradually got used to it, even though I still couldn't quit the 'bad habit' of buying books. Mother often advised me to set up my own 'home'; I smiled and said nothing. When pressed, I said I was born to wander, wherever I go is home. Waving my sleeve, heaven as quilt and earth as mat, mountains and rivers as pillow. Before I finished speaking, Mother always sighed long, as if in her eyes, after I grew up, my home was no longer my home. Nowadays, I really no longer feel home is any obsession. Even if I think of past days again and cry bitterly. So what? On how many park benches have I wept? And in how many changing rooms of airports in other places have I tossed and turned? Countless, naturally countless.
Coming back to post photos🥲
At the start of the new year, live well.
Others watch the news, we look in the mirror. ——Tang Yuwen of Yokohama High School
🥱I seem to be 98 (feeble/old), everything I look at feels meaningless
At the inn, green green willows, a fresh color🙂
Sitting in front of the door of the old house at home, tears fell, lying down watching Sirius rise in the sky. The brightest star. I think the first half of my life I was chasing nothing but an illusion. Fortunately, the wind of my hometown is always especially sweet and clear. The smell of mud just after rain, the cooking smoke rising from the neighbor's chimney at dinnertime, the bursts of 🐶 barking from the yard. They are so pleasant at this moment, making one feel at peace. If life could be so brief, I would willingly disappear forever in this quarter of an hour. Taking away no regrets of this life🌙
Today I gave a child the old edition of 'Me and the Temple of Earth' that I've kept on my bookshelf for many years. Its rough dark-blue cover had already frayed at the edges. I explained to her that this isn't a new book, and hoped she wouldn't mind. I told her about my uncontrollable rage when I was ill, not knowing whether she could understand. I thought of when I was in the first year of middle school — of course I couldn't understand why someone who is sick would lose their temper at anyone either. Our bad tempers often hurt the people closest to us. She said she had also read 'An Autumn Remembrance' and 'The Locust Tree'. She said she was equally deeply moved. Time flew back more than a decade, to the scene of me standing in front of my desk in the first year of middle school, reading 'An Autumn Remembrance' with deep feeling, sobbing uncontrollably while being ruthlessly mocked by my classmates — it is truly moving.
Haven't been back in a long time🦊
In beautiful Yokohama, your photos need no filter⛺️
The unfrozen riverbank is a paradise forgotten by the world🍂
Looking back again, the figure has already walked far away Looking back again, eyes blurred with tears. ——Autumn is made for nostalgia
Yellow millet dream must finally awaken; mirror flowers and water moon are always empty.
A few days ago, because of anxiety and depression I felt body pain; after showering I froze outdoors in minus twenty degree weather for two hours. Looking back, I'm very grateful to the auxiliary police officer who pulled me from the middle of the road that day, and the tavern owner who gave me sparkling wine. After I left I paid double for the wine; he's a young man, very good at business and also kind. He sat across from me, silently accompanying me for an hour. Finally he gave me a song I love, 'Anhe Bridge'. Perhaps to me they are only strangers, passersby. But as long as there's a breath of warmth, it can save an endangered person. This world has a lot of善意 (goodwill), although even more malice. But I hope the vast starlight can illuminate every withered dandelion🫐
Doing the hardest work, eating the worst food — the life of a Chinese Rural Dog Mother came back from my aunt's home, a cardboard box tied to the back seat of her bicycle. Several holes were poked in the box, revealing a hot, milky smell. She untied the rope, put the box in the yard, and called to me: 'Come and see, I've brought you a companion.' That was about ten years ago, exactly the age when one least wants a companion. I stood on the steps of the side room, watching coldly. The box opened, and inside curled a lump of yellowish thing. After quite a while, it tremblingly stood up. It was a small 🐶, tiger-headed and tiger-brained, with a fluffy head, and two ears still drooping, not yet standing. The strangest was that coat of fur — not the common grayish yellow of rural 土🐶, but bright, like golden wheat ears ripe in autumn. It lifted its head, wet round eyes looking at me, with a hint of careful讨好 (ingratiation). 'Truly stupid.' I thought in my heart, adding another sentence: 'With looks like that, it looks like a 🐶 in a painting.' Rural people name 🐶s mostly 'Heizi' 'Huanghuang' and such, with a sense of casualness. Looking at its golden fur, a name suddenly came to my heart — Laohu (Tiger). This name carries a bit of wildness, and a bit of bravado that shouldn't belong to this yard. But at that time it was only palm-sized, and when it walked its hind legs still stumbled — truly disgracing this name. I don't like it, or rather, I tried hard to make myself not like it. When I came back from school, it welcomed me at the door, its small body swaying, its tail wagging like a dandelion in the wind. I went around it and went straight inside. At mealtime, it drilled around under the table, occasionally touching my foot; I would draw my foot back, with a kind of inexplicable annoyance in my heart. But beneath that annoyance, faintly, there was a trace of joy I couldn't explain myself. I hated this joy of mine. What truly moved my heart was that summer rainy night. In the evening, the sky darkened, like a piece of old青布 washed pale. After dinner, thunder rolled in, raindrops first sparse, as big as copper coins, hitting the cement ground in the yard, soaking into dark round marks. In an instant, it became a curtain of rain. 'Where's Laohu?' Mother asked. Only then did I realize it was gone. Probably in the afternoon the yard gate wasn't closed tightly, and it slipped out. Father said indifferently: 'It won't get lost, 🐶 remembers the road. When the rain stops it'll come back on its own.' I didn't make a sound, returned to my room, and pushed the window open a slit. Rain drifted in diagonally, coolly扑 on my face. I imagined it in the wild, soaked through by the rain, huddled under some tree shivering. That picture gave my heart another indescribable taste. I lay in bed, listening to the rain, unable to sleep for a long time. I don't know how long passed, the rain gradually lessened, becoming a fine, dense rustling sound. In the yard, suddenly there came a faint, intermittent scratching sound. I sat up at once, jumped out of bed barefoot, ran to the door, and pulled it open. It was Laohu. It stood outside the threshold, soaked through, that beautiful golden fur sticking to its body in strands, thin as a一把骨头 (bunch of bones). It lifted its head looking at me, its eyes under the dim yellow corridor light, bright as two small, inextinguishable lamps. It didn't bark, just stood there, panting slightly, its whole body trembling. I crouched down and reached out my hand. It came over, pressed its wet head against my palm — cool, yet with a trace of its body's warmth. Rainwater flowed down its fur onto my hand. At that instant, the wall in my heart that had been built for a long time in secret suddenly collapsed at a corner, letting in a ray of light. Later, we were often together. On summer evenings, the sun set, and the sunset glow burned the sky into orange-red. I would take Laohu out. The rural dirt road, warmed by the daytime sun, was soft to step on. It ran before and behind me, sometimes running far ahead, then folding back to welcome me; sometimes钻ing into the grass by the roadside, startling a few grasshoppers, then扑ing and jumping about for a while. The cornfields by the road, dense, when the wind blew the leaves rustled, carrying a sweet, plant scent. That was, in my teenage years, the most peaceful period of time. At mealtime, Father and Mother were in the main room; I sat on my small stool by the stove. In the bowl were ordinary dishes, occasionally one or two pieces of meat. I would lower my head, quickly shovel rice, and while they weren't paying attention, extremely quickly throw a piece of meat under the table. Laohu would silently catch it, without any sound. After eating, it would gently rest its head on my knee, eyes docilely, trustingly looking at me, as if saying, I know, you have me in your heart. At that time, I didn't yet understand what悲凉 (desolation) was. Only sometimes looking at it, a thought would suddenly float up in my heart: why can city 🐶s wear clothes, sleep on soft cushions, be held in their owner's arms and called 'baby'? And my Laohu, so good, can only sleep in the corner of the yard, eating the coarsest food, doing the hardest work — guarding the door, protecting the yard, accompanying a lonely child walking on the summer-night field ridges. Why? No one gave me an answer. Father and Mother wouldn't think about this problem. In their eyes, a 🐶 is a 🐶. For eight generations of ancestors it's been like this. That autumn, afternoon sunlight slanted into the yard,曬ing a row of old corn under the wall root. Laohu lay beside the corn, squinting and dozing. The neighbor from next door pushed a tricycle in, the carriage full of sweet potatoes just dug from the field. The cart was a bit heavy, he pushed with difficulty, crookedly. Laohu was probably asleep and didn't hear. The wheel ran over its front leg. A sharp, unlike-a-🐶 cry, like a blunt knife,猛地 cut through the quiet air in the yard. I ran out and saw Laohu curled on the ground, its whole body trembling violently. Its left front leg, from the knee down, was already a血肉模糊 (bloody mess). Dark red blood, mixed with mud and sand, soaked a large area. It lifted its head looking at me, in its eyes there was no哀鸣 (wailing), no乞求 (begging), only a kind of hollow, almost out-of-focus茫然 (bewilderment) from extreme pain. I got anxious, my voice changed in panic: 'Send it to the hospital! Must send it to the hospital!' Father walked out of the room, glanced, frowned, then relaxed. He crouched, reached out and touched Laohu's head; Laohu艰难地 stretched out its tongue and licked his hand. Father stood up, patted the dirt off his hands, and said to me: 'Send it to what hospital? It'll be fine in a few days. A 🐶's life is tough.' 'But it's bleeding so much! Its leg is crushed!' My voice sharpened, carrying a trembling on the verge of cracking that I hadn't realized myself. Mother also came out, flour still on her hands, probably kneading dough. She looked at Laohu on the ground, looked at me, sighed: 'You child, why are you so不懂事 (insensible)? That's a 🐶, not a person. Go to the vet station, wrap some medicine, that's enough. Go to what hospital? How much money would that cost?' 'But—' 'Alright alright,' Father interrupted me, a hint of impatience in his tone, 'A 🐶, not that precious. When you were small and scraped your knee, I didn't see you闹着 wanting to go to the hospital.' They turned around, each忙ing their own things. I stood in place, watching their figures disappear behind the door curtain of the main room. The curtain swayed, then垂 down, motionless. The yard quieted down. The sunlight was still that sunlight,照ing the old corn,照ing me,照ing Laohu curled on the ground, covered in blood. It didn't bark again, just rested its head on the ground, eyes half-closed, its throat emitting a faint, suppressed呜咽 (whimper). That whimper didn't seem to be for the wound, but rather for this world it had guarded for many years yet could never truly enter. I slowly crouched down, reached out, wanting to touch it. It努力地 lifted its head, brought its face to my palm, like countless times before. Its tongue was warm, gently licking my fingers. That bit of warmth followed my fingertips, all the way cooling into my heart. At that instant, I suddenly understood one thing. In this yard, in my father's eyes, in my mother's eyes, in many people's eyes, it was never any Laohu (Tiger). It was only a 🐶. A Chinese Rural Dog born to eat bitterness, guard the door, eat the worst food, do the hardest work, then silently, quietly die. Its life was innately light, light as the handful of yellow earth that buried it after its death. And me? The name I gave it, that bit of secretly shared meat, those field ridges I walked with it on summer nights — in the face of such heavy and cold reality, what do they count for? I can change nothing. I lifted my head, looking at the square sky above the yard, blue so clean, so indifferent. In my ears I heard again Father's words, Mother's words, and after the door curtain fell, the long and hollow silence. Laohu's whimper was still by my ears, fine and soft. I thought of the sighs of the women in Yi Shu's works, gently, without a trace, yet making your whole heart clench. And the moon in Zhang Ailing's works is probably coldly, highly照ing this world's various humilities and helplessness. Later, Laohu's leg wound healed, only leaving a slight disability — when it走起路来 (walks), its hind leg limps slightly. It still guards this yard, doing the hardest work, eating the worst food. When it sees me, it still brings its head over, its paws扒ing my trouser leg, rolling around四脚朝天 (belly up). And I, from then on, never called it 'Laohu' again.
At thirty I suddenly find everything is very tiring. Looking back, my life is already half gone. In other words, I'm half buried in soil. When I was eighteen I thought living to 40 should be the endpoint; carefully looking at people around me who are 40, they're still full of spirit, strong in old age. Or as everyone says, 40 is exactly youth. Simple numbers should never be the standard for measuring whether we're young. I should absorb as much vigorous vitality as I can. I stretch my hand under the sun, touching the sunlight; the sunlight gives me the answer — it says warmth is my vitality. I stretch my hand toward the beach, caressing the sand and stones; it says roughness is my vitality. I stretch my hand toward an ancient tree, gently stroking his skin; he says tree rings are my vitality. I step on the morning sun, facing the salty wind, the fine sand on the beach covers the back of my feet. The seagull by the shore flies against the wind; he tells me vitality is in every day I'm alive……
Really, when you're old, waking up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom and then you can't fall asleep... this sleep quality🐶🐶🐶
Sunrise and moonset can heal my trauma~
The sun always moves people. Everything can start over like a sunrise, and can also sink calmly like a sunset. Our lives flow in the day-after-day light; the generous sun is forever illuminating the next rise.
I am docile, humorous, fragile, clever, brave, feudal, free and easy, unrestrained, sincere, frank, generous, warm, profound, devoted, vigorous, melancholy……
Came back to post photos🥹
I love taking photos, my skin is so good😄
🥲Finished posting……
My video account算是养成 (has been raised/built up)🥲
The sunlight of the Muerzat Glacier, left for the ten-thousand-year ice blue🏔
Half is danger, half is fairyland ——The Great Beauty Yizhao S237
The lake is the lake in the sky, the clouds are the clouds in the lake☁
Called my bestie to complain and vent; discovered my bestie is even more miserable than me. Everyone has their own grave to cry at — let's each cry at our own.
I love the folds of distant mountains, and even more I love the bruises on my body.
In this world, kind little 🐶s save the world!
