rainy season

When I took the bus home on a rainy day, the streets were full of moisture, and the windows were wet and dripping, and there was fog on all sides, so I couldn't see anything. The car is on the road, like a box paddling through the river. I leaned back on the saddle of the car and thought about Marquez's school of fish swimming in the air, which was about the same weather. He said that when the rainy season passed, people had developed gills and tail fins, but that was not true. However, I do feel that my senses are like this car window, covered with a layer of fog that I can't wipe clean.

After more than ten days of comfort, I felt like I was in a book, and my soul was covered with dust—a dull peace in my heart. Cats, dogs, turtledoves on the windowsill, flowers and bones turned out from under the stones, my heart was full of such things, and I couldn't think of anything else. Even if you read a book and see any moving emotions, you can't touch it through a layer of glass. I read Cao Cao's poem the night before, and one of them was written after Dong Zhuo's rebellion, in which he said that he was "as poor as a crack" and "his title is not as good as rain". I thought about it at night, and thought about it first thing in the morning, and imagined how I had a violent thirst, and how it grew in its body, to break through its fragile shell, to break through its heart, to break its skin and burst out, and to be blocked in its throat and under its eye sockets—and how it was imprisoned indefinitely by the bondage of all kinds of tight flesh. It vaguely seemed to feel it, and it was always far away from me, as if it had nothing to do with me.

Where in the world is there any emotion that cannot be communicated? I must have experienced the pain of fame, authority, and expressiveness in this tossing and turning, but not at this moment, in this comfortable, drowsy rainy season, I can't recall it for the time being.

Soon I read Han Yu's poem again, "The emperor wants to chant for a long time, so he is sent and stiff." Jianling is sent to the cage to see the birds flying. "It's really the best interpretation of "article hate" I've ever seen. The Emperor wanted the poets to sing for a long time, so he cut off their feathers and put them in cages to watch the birds fly. How vividly that scene touched me! I saw the songbirds that were covered in blood and screamed day and night, their dark eyes, the glorious sunset beyond the bar, and the dung and feathers piled up at the bottom of the cage. At this time, the poem is like a sharp scraper, scraping off a layer of rock-like rough skin, and pouring a trace of real emotion into my heart.

So, you have to read a lot of books. Han Yu also wrote Li Du, saying that their poems are like the exploits of opening mountains and controlling waters, "When you want to be a hand, the giant blade sharpens the sky." The cliffs are crumbling, and the sky is thundering. "I don't think that's an exaggeration! The literature that cries ghosts and gods is like a giant axe that opens the world, trying to break through the barriers of our emotions and electric our dark consciousness. Let us poke our heads out of the chamber of the ego and be exposed to the reckless world of emotions, trembling and thirsty, fearful and resentful, drunk and crying, singing and mad.

Ah, listen to the rain, go make a pot of tea, and I'll go to sleep again.