Fragments / 碎片
Fictional, meaningless writing practice. 虚构的，无意义的写作练习
Memory is a train. I boarded it heading for Comedy Town. When I opened the door, every room was a universe, every one in the room tried to talk to me. I could only see their heads poking out enthusiastically but not their bodies. It made me feel like there was infinite space in this train. At night, we went through the valley. I saw the lights of the stars on the hillside, fog and the bridge. We told stories in such a night that all those stories seemed to never end.
In that control room, my colleagues and I thought of many, many countermeasures to deal with breakdowns. We recorded them in notebooks, on sticky notes, on whiteboards, on computers… Those cold hearts of steel lived in our subtle calculations, just like their metal bodies, and any little bit of time corrosion was within reach. We learned more and more about each other’s habits as we got along. I slept in the noise of the factory at midnight of summer. It had been a year in which I had never been more cheerful and met so many friends. With my empathy, I could no longer distinguish people from things.
On the forbidden island, everything was black and white no matter what it was books, buildings, food, or the faces of the characters. Our expressions were no longer so vibrant, and there was only pity in our eyes. Thus my life became very tranquil. Every Friday, I talked to myself in the future through the mirror, listening to him tell how his life had passed, marveling at his short life in color. I was still 25, or 26, and time stopped there.
I took pictures with the furniture I lived with. Now we don’t need each other anymore. I imagine them as bulky, non-speaking friends. Until a date came like a road roller, and our memories have been torn apart ever since.
It’s a clear afternoon I lay on the slope, the dome of the sky was high and wide all around, the music of the wind blowing the grass was so loud that I could hardly hear anything else.
We don’t care about the death of others
“Nothing can stop the desire for reunification, be it a wall, a strait, or a military demarcation line” —- nationalist propaganda slogan
Think of the old days, those barbaric, unimaginable society
I closed my eyes and I saw her eyes blooming in the gray light
Opinion / 观点
Immature Opinions based on observations. 不成熟的观点
In writting, what matters is not how the world is or should be, but how you think and what you actually feel at the time. I stood in front of a huge, labyrinth-like self and tried to unravel all its mysteries.
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