Purple_Garden's Xanga

Listen

Tue, 12 Feb 2008 10:45:17 GMT

[记于2008年1月12日]

起床后，喉咙依旧有些刺痛。窗外的雾气，那么繁盛，看不见外面的路。泡了杯热茶，想起昨晚你对我说过的话。

我看不见你，看不见你是否在哭。但是你始终蜷缩在我脑海中灰白色墙角里，无助得像小孩子。你打字时的沙沙声，是痛苦在飞速渗出沙漏。你说时间所剩无几。

痛苦终究是一个人心底的事，旁人的惊讶，愤怒与害怕都显得过于做作与浮夸。所以我选择了沉默。但是在昨夜的睡梦中，那些很想说但是始终没有说出口的话，拥挤在一起，让我的喉咙开始作痛。

这是一个没有余味的日子。酒精的快感无法解开喉咙中的结。我提早离开了灯火阑珊，回到了这里。在这里，在这个没有人可以听到我的声音的角落里，我对你说，

一定要坚强。

最后一夜

Tue, 05 Feb 2008 04:23:47 GMT

【记于2008年1月日】

那个放纵的夜晚，像一条泥泞不堪的路，走过以后，就不愿回头去看。

她穿了一条黑色裙子，涂抹了黑色指甲。当烟花绽放时，大口地喝了下了一整杯香槟。她拥抱了每一个朋友，在他们的怀里说着感激的话语。她变得话很多。她说她明年一定会站起来，稳稳地站起来，坚强地走下去。然后，在人群散尽后的凌晨四点钟，这个女人，这个喝得烂醉的傻女人，在空无一人的街道上开始奔跑，像个没家的孩子。我跟在她的身后，却拉不住她。我看见她跌倒在街头。她抚摸着膝盖，没有哭。

我发现自己爱上了这个醉女人。我不得不去爱她。她是如此活泼，热情，真实与勇敢。她炫耀着我掩埋了的所有。我很想带她上路，在旅途中听她的笑声，我要紧紧地抱着她，让她的光芒穿透我的身体，我的灵魂。

2008年的第一个清晨，我带着宿醉醒来。发现膝盖上的伤口就要好了，只待那层痂慢慢脱落，就会露出新肉，那重生的希望，愈合的记恨。

谢谢你，昨夜的我。

Unplugged

Mon, 07 Jan 2008 10:35:07 GMT

Tonight I’ve come to hear you play

In this Spanish café

Upon this lonely stage

You once held me in your arms

Like your favorite guitar

Whispers like lullaby from afar

You saved me from a world of harm

There is too much confusion

I am drunk on rum-flavored illusion

The world never stops spinning

I want to go back

Back to the beginning

Back to when love was just a beautiful longing

Have I played this tune all wrong?

Have I become an old song

That you can no longer recall?

I am tired of sitting here

Fighting dreams with reality

Sing me a tune unheard by all vanity

Unplug your voice from the noise

Let me dance to your honest words

Baby sing to me

Let’s go back

Back to the beginning

Ê±¼äÒ»Ö±ÔÚ¾¹ý [Ò»]

Wed, 26 Sep 2007 01:57:32 GMT

隆冬之际谁的承诺被丢进炉灶当火柴
时间一直在经过
我只知道取暖的人是我

[零]

夏天。空气中弥散着花粉的香。她坐在Ethan的车子里。那是一辆婴儿蓝色的Toyota，车子很旧，里面没有冷气，外表亦破旧不堪。但是，Ethan的衬衫很白，他的睫毛很长。这是她看到的全部。因为这些就足够了。

他们坐在闷热的车里吃着意大利刨冰。融化的冰水顺着她的手指滑下，滴落在赤裸的脚趾头上，痒痒的。她忍不住笑出来声来。Ethan拿出手帕为她擦去嘴角的冰水。他是一个携带手帕的男人。她为此疯狂。一个可以随时抹去污渍的男人，一定是完美的。Ethan吃的是蓝莓口味的刨冰。她至今依旧清楚地记得他被渲染成蓝色的唇齿。她好想再次俯身去亲吻他，就像亲吻为殉情而死的蓝色幽灵，在一吻之后他重获新生，从此爱她，致死不渝。
然而，她却记不起来那天从自己的刨冰中吃出了什么口味。

[一]
她和男人相识在秋末这样一个抑郁的时节。城市的道路被死去的树叶所覆盖，踩下去脚下会发出粉身碎骨的崩裂声。在Ethan死后，故事在跌宕中寻到了平衡，悄然地延续下去。

她的名字叫琪。那天清晨出门前，她坐在梳妆台前为自己画上淡妆。她没有使用化妆品的习惯，但是在趴在马桶上呕吐了三个小时之后，她不得不想办法遮掩住眼下的浑浊与唇中的惨白。窗外一辆洒水车播放着陈旧的小曲缓缓地开过，似乎有些怜惜般地在寂静的晨曦中，为她留下了唯一的声响。

没有吃早餐就出门了。走在街上才发现衣服穿得太少了。街旁的梧桐树的叶子已脱落干净。琪想象如果这条路有阳光倾泻，是否会温暖一些。她在地铁站买了张晨报，然后随着人潮走上了二号地铁。车厢中与往日一样拥挤。为生活而奔波的人们麻木而生硬的脸，在尚未被阳光普照的清晨已经逐渐苍老。琪躲在他们的缝隙中，手指紧紧地扣住头顶的拉环。站在不远处的高中女学生正在津津有味地啃着一块甜腻的奶油面包。琪忽然感到一股酸水就从胃里返流到嘴中。她捂住嘴，一遍又一遍地咽下口水。肮脏的空气要让她窒息。一位穿着西服的男人打量了她一会儿，然后站起身，要把位子让给她。琪愣了一下，似乎没有明白他的意思。男人冲她会意地点了点头。那眼神中夹杂了过多的怜惜与同情。琪这才知道男人的眼睛已经穿透了自己的身体，看见了里面那些细小而不为人知的变化。于是她没有拒绝，坐了下来。

[待续]

[Ô´´Ê«] ÂêÀö¼òÃ»ÓÐ³¤´ó

Mon, 24 Sep 2007 03:04:29 GMT

黑发中的蝴蝶结摆脱了毛毛虫的孩子气
玛丽简在角落沉默不语与谁在赌气

十六岁的舞会上王子送的水晶鞋
鞋跟三英尺半的个头伸手刚好采撷
那个半生不熟的苹果

为了挣脱鞋盒子的框框
我们的玛丽简把翅膀系在了窄小的脚面
在糖果店的门口发现
一枚被咀嚼到没有甜味的童年粘在脚底

跳舞的女孩早已长眠于山下
而那双尺码五号的玛丽简却始终没有长大

£Û×í×ÖÔ·£Ý¡¡¶À¾ÓÅ®

Thu, 20 Sep 2007 05:35:55 GMT

　　　　　我是喜欢一个人住的女生。自己煮饭，自己抱着枕头看日剧，自己修理永远也修不好的马桶抽水箱。

晚餐是一碗自己煮的加蛋面条。和昨天的菜谱一样，也许也会和明天的一样。每周洗一次衣服。套上一件超大号棉布T-shirt，坐在轰轰震动的洗衣机上翻看一本让人眼花缭乱的时尚杂志。圈下感觉穿在自己身上会很美的衣服。在永远也买不起的包包旁边画糗脸。

姐妹们会在华灯初上的周末出现。家里会突然冒出好几双高跟鞋同时快乐地抨击地板的声音，以及混合在一起的女生香水味。叽叽喳喳的喧闹只会持续几分钟，在我们冲出门之后，是恢复到完好无缺的平静。

我有一扇落地窗。其实当初找住所时并没有过多的要求，只想要一扇很大很大的窗户。在没有约会的下午，喜欢抱瓶清水坐在落地窗旁的地板上发呆。有时窗外的天空很蓝很透明，云朵离自己很近很近，看不出是否有风，也听不见玻璃窗外的任何声响。在那片泛出甜味的安静中，我会很想去爱一个人。

会在这样的一个冷清而无所事事的晚上，打开台灯，打开电脑，在CD机中放进一张旧旧的唱片，然后安静地写下一些这样的文字。不痛不痒，带着无病呻吟的调调。习惯性地把家中的所有的电灯都打开。昂贵的电费无法抵消内心对黑暗的恐惧，因为骨子里依旧是个胆怯的小女生。
会心血来潮地去买鲜花。每次都是白色马蹄莲。修长而纤细的颈项，雪白而无瑕疵的脸，充满了女人味的神秘与矜持。花瓣开放的程度只让你在某一个角度都才可以看到里面嫩黄的花蕊。我会把她们插入长颈玻璃花瓶，然后摆在从来没有人坐下来吃饭的餐桌上。可以想象像我这样一个连自己的晚饭都会忘记吃的人会是怎样失败的养花人。每一株被我抱回家的马蹄莲在两天后就会自动憔悴凋谢。但是我仍然会在下班回家的路上买上一束花。像一个在学走路的孩童一般固执地相信，有一天自己可以在人生历程中迈出一大步，可以全力以赴地爱惜，去保护另一个生命。

像一只小小的萤火虫，在庞大的都市中用自己的光亮为自己带路。这是我的生活。害怕黑暗，喜欢发呆，不停地买花，其实这些举动都是出于一种自己不愿去触及的心境。那是孤独吧。毕竟这是一个人住的日子。毕竟屋中的对白永远是从电视机里传出的。毕竟在落地窗旁花掉一个下午看云朵飘走之后，剩下的只是一团无人安抚的伤感。

[fiction] The Fish

Tue, 12 Jun 2007 21:50:34 GMT

My fish died.
It was a baby goldfish, as tiny as half of my pinky. It died on my office desk, in the paper cup next to my phone. Monday morning when I walked into the office, I saw the fish’s body flipped over, lifelessly floating on top of the water. It can be easily mistaken for a cigarette butt, helpless being put out in a cup.
How sad.
I guess it was doomed to death from the beginning, considering how much I wanted to care for the fish. For one thing, I had never cared to name the fish. Josh liked to call it little goof, but I never felt intimate enough to call it anything, except for “the fish”.
Josh was the one who gave me this fish. He bought it on the same day he asked me out to dinner. I guess in dating terms, that day was monumentally marked as our first date, the beginning of our relationship and all that jazz. We had dinner in a cozy restaurant on Mulberry Street, so after dinner we walked around Chinatown. There was an old man who was selling a bucket of fish at the side of the street. Josh pulled me over there, pointed to the smallest fish in the bucket and turned to me. He asked, how long do you think this little guy will live?
As long as you want it to live, was my answer.
So he took out his wallet and bought it, the tiniest fish of all, which, five months later, became the dead fish in my paper cup.
Looking back on whole thing, I never fully comprehended the reason why Josh had bought this fish. Evidently, as sappy as it sounds, the guy was embracing his budding feelings about our relationship and attaching them to the little fish. The fish has become the symbolic embodiment of our relationship, an icon of wishes and hopes, and all that good stuff. As acceptance of Josh’s grand gesture, I also bought a fish tank where the fish could live and grow. It seemed perfect.
But here comes ironic and incomprehensible part. Four months after the fish incident, I came back to my apartment one day to pick up something for work. I caught Josh making love to a girl on our bed. Two weeks later, Josh moved out of my apartment.
It was so unoriginal. The whole thing was like scenes copied straight from a b-rated chick flick, with the cheating, the begging and the inevitable break-up. I was too jaded to feel melancholy about anything. I knew I would dwell on this, because it was a woman’s job to dwell. So that night I opened up a bottle of red wine as part of the ritual, and drowned myself in it. It was fast and painless. By the next morning, with a slight hangover, I was ready to let go and purge this relationship from my memory, until the moment when I accidently caught a glimpse of the fish.
I immediately saw the irony when I saw the fish, and I laughed. I realized that Josh was like the kid who said that he wasn’t going to eat any cookie while his hand was already in the cookie jar. Why say something to only turn it into lies seconds later? I guess I understand why women no longer go wild at the sound of promises. Promises are too flaky. They are like milk. If not kept well enough, they turn sour and make you sick.
Now the fish has died. My life has never been so full of ironies up until this point. It was so much fun to ponder over my own life that I’m actually starting to enjoy it. After ending it with Josh, I took the fish to work. Technically speaking, I should’ve killed it. But I couldn’t bring myself to do such a horrifying thing, so I decided to leave it on my office desk, and let it die on its own. At least I could blame it on destiny.
Every day I played God. I watched the poor little thing struggle. I put it in a paper cup half full of water. I never fed it nor changed the water. I put it next to my phone which rang hundreds of times a day. The sheer volume of the ring could’ve shattered the fish to death. It was amazing my little buddy has stuck out for an entire of two weeks.
I took the cup with the fish’s remain to the lady’s washroom. I went into a stall and closed the door behind me. I dumped the fish in the toilet and pressed the flush button.
Suddenly I remembered when I was five my family also had a fish named Daisy. She was white with tiny red dots, and was a little bit bigger than this one. One day, my mom put the fish in the toilet and told me Daisy was a sick, and that she was going to the hospital from there. She needs to swim to the ocean where she will be saved, mom said.
Well the truth was that Daisy was dead, and no one ever saved her.
From then on, I decided that I no longer liked fish. They seemed so fragile and so vulnerable. As if life isn’t already so vulnerable and unpredictable, so why would I want to keep around something might die on me?
I watched the fish being sucked into that dark hole in the toilet.
How long do you think this little guy will live?
As long as you want it to live.
And he only wanted it to live this long.
So long, my nameless fish!
Oh, excuse me. It wasn’t nameless. Its name was little goof, as Josh liked to call it, and little error it was.

±¯ÉËÄæÁ÷³ÉºÓ

Mon, 21 May 2007 04:51:18 GMT

刚刚读完郭敬明的新书。不知是我长大了，还是他退步了，放下书后我唯一的感叹就是一句：

“至于么？”

关于对故事中情节与人物的失望我并不想多说。我觉得小郭同学似乎也知道这部新作的力度欠佳，所以他才绞尽脑汁用拍卖的形势来热炒自己的书。最后是谁花了400块钱把这本书带回家的？

你真是有钱没地方花。

Wordless

Mon, 14 May 2007 02:37:38 GMT

I think I have always been a plodder, a person who anguishes and struggles over each sentence, and even on my best days I do no more than inch long, crawling on my belly like man lost in the desert. The smallest word is surrounded by acres of silence for me, and even after I manage to get that word down on the page, it seems to sit there like a mirage, a speck of doubt glimmering in the sand. I am shut off from my own thoughts, trapped in a no-man's land between feeling and articulation.

Ëæ±Ê - ¾ì

Sat, 12 May 2007 05:03:29 GMT

最近去上海游玩，过了一段离开文字的日子。有些不习惯。像一个丢了洋娃娃的小女孩，每晚只能抱着一份落寞入睡。回到家后迫不及待地打开电脑，去看那些令我兴奋不已的文字，它们还在不在。白花花的屏幕上映出一排排熟稔的文字，故事停泊在某一个玄虚的高潮。我的心跳开始加快，困在压抑中奄奄一息的幻想像被注入新鲜的血液，开始复活。
也许这就是我眷顾写故事的原因。我对自己笔下的每一个故事都有着使命感，这种使命办使我在写下故事结局之前无法离去。就算离去，那也只是身体，而我的思绪与创作欲望始终萦绕在故事的左右，就像一个心事未了，不舍红尘的鬼魂。
我爱我写下的每一个故事，我无法不爱。如果我笔下的故事无法感动别人，至少它感动了我。