Annie Baby ·

Author: Anni
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2004-10-01
Features: I don’t know when I gradually became a person who often laments. This book meticulously records and lightly reflects on clouds, light, firecrackers in the square, rain, and the disappearance of loved ones. It’s about the edge of the heart and time, immeasurable and unattainable emotions, silence in confrontation, and lucid inquiry. I’ve never understood the meaning of life, yet I have an abundant and inexpressible affection for it. Gradually, I became silent. Gradually, I got used to taking some plain and tiny photos, as if recording time. A Canon camera has been in my bag for nearly two years, its shell gradually worn, but it feels like an old friend who shares all my subtle feelings. Too slowly, one learns to communicate with objects rather than people. Perhaps, with people, we will eventually grow distant. Just like the blue planet we inhabit, people will live and die like wheat stalks, while its rotation remains indifferent. Everyone ultimately lives in the depths of their own self. Yes. One day, we will all grow old and die. Happiness may be an ultimate symbol, but it doesn’t bring liberation. There are some things, some people, that make us silently grieve in solitude, without regret. There are some things, some people, that remind us of how we once illuminated each other’s eyes, violently as if our bodies were shattered, and we still think of it. Here and now. This is the divine essence of life. You never know how it will come or what its final outcome will be. Its nobility cannot be measured. It’s like the wounds and memories hidden in our hearts. We must always maintain a sense of reverence for time, beauty, and pain. Our lives may also be like the simple existence of a white-flowered tree in spring. Whether striving to bloom or quietly withering, we accept and cherish it all. One day, I saw white cotton thread bundled into small bunches of flowers in an old farmer’s basket by the roadside. The leaves were tough and vibrant green, the petals pure white and fragrant, rich as silk. The green buds were firm and full, their fragrance sharp and pungent, almost toxic. On a hot summer night, the gardenia brought memories of the south. I brought a bunch of blooming flowers home. Unsure how to treat them. Glancing around, I was filled with joy, watering them only with clean water. With reluctance, I fell into a deep sleep, forgetting to take photos of them with my camera. The next morning, I woke up to find that all the flowers had died. The more beautiful, the more tragic their death. Yellow and withered, like waste paper. Not a single day could be wasted. Unwilling to be torn from the branch and stripped of its soul. Unable to be a resilient zombie. Prefering to self-destruct until I was grotesque, to be discarded. Only then does this short and hopeless beauty sink into the bones, leaving a lingering memory. Never to linger on. This white, fragrant flower represents the beginning of summer. Like a woman’s unpredictable personality, an irreconcilable blend of tenderness and defiance. It must be this way. To be deeply loved by someone you can never have. The second day, tsunami, dark sea. Again, I heard the sound of the tide. As if coming from the deepest, faint vibrations of the earth’s core. Wave after wave. The vast night sky was filled with the grayish shadows of clouds. The stars were bright and low. I took off my shoes, shedding my burdens. My bare toes stretched out one by one. Between the delicate grains of sand, the residual heat of the day’s scorching sun lingered. The beach was like a white dream field spreading out. Yes. That was the field you saw in your dreams. Barren sand dunes. Free and unrestrained. Every person who comes to the sea at night is a child who has taken off their clothes.