Emotional

Author: Zhang Min
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2001-03-01
Features: I often think now that the years after I met Xiaojin were definitely the most pure, and spiritually pure, times in my life. I was filled with joy and pride. Although no one had ever told me what kind of impact such behavior would have on others, I could completely imagine that it would make others feel our superiority and luck. I don’t know whether it was happiness that made me so infatuated and childish, or whether there was some artificial element in my behavior, that I deliberately acted that way. At that time, our school had several young ladies who were graceful, beautiful, and delightful to look at. But I always ignored them, as if I were afraid they would feel good about themselves, afraid they would think I, like other men, couldn’t help but appreciate them, and that it would devalue my love. For some reason, I had to pretend to be indifferent to their beauty and act haughtily and coldly. I don’t know if they noticed my attitude behind the numerous men who surrounded them. I always felt strongly that they did notice. Whenever they were present, I had to pay close attention to my expressions and actions, feeling that I was indeed very unusual and that they had noticed. In school, I rarely talked to them; I just hoped to appear before them and then leave. I felt that my sudden appearance and gradually receding figure must have left a deep impression on them. Sometimes, when I met them on campus, I would either act as if I were deep in thought and ignore them, or just give them a casual, indifferent greeting. When the school had dances, I often hesitated between going and not going. If I went, I would always leave early after making a brief appearance (I can only use this word to describe my mindset). And in the dance hall, I would not invite them; I would always stay with a few simple, ordinary girls, talk and dance, and then leave. Why did I always seem to be in a fictional scenario, determined to act rebelliously and unpredictably? At that time, it was the off-season for farming, and there were no night shifts, making winter nights seem long. Free evenings often excited me. After dinner every day, I would be in a dazed state of pleasure, full of thoughts of what to do. But in the end, I could only lie on the broken table, half-asleep, reading a few pages of a book. This made those exciting evenings filled with longing, loneliness, and sadness. My two female neighbors were often not at home at night, visiting somewhere. On the days they didn’t go out, I also wanted to sit in their rooms, but this thought made me hesitate. I would imagine that they had already gone to bed and that they didn’t plan to chat with me; I would rack my brain for topics, imagine my awkwardness in their room, and imagine their annoyance and suspicion at my mysterious visit and dull conversation. Later, time passed, and I think they must be in bed now. At such moments, I would often open the door and spit outside, then look toward their rooms. The light in their room was on, casting a circle of crystal-like, tranquil orange light outside the window. In the cold darkness by the window, I felt it