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《The Freedom You Gambled Your Life For》
I have a love for words, for literature, deeply etched into my very bones. They are the very fabric of my existence.
Just as Jesse Livermore was captivated by the dancing numbers of the stock market, none of us can ever truly sever ourselves from what we are born to do.
Literature is the study of humanity; it is the mirror of my soul.
I am an ordinary person living a mundane life, yet my journey has unfolded like a dark fantasy novel.
The words I write have always possessed a quiet magic, guiding me to unexpected souls and unfamiliar landscapes.
For over a decade, my pen lay dormant. Then, in November 2025, I casually began to write again by pure chance.
And then, a miracle happened. I connected with a distant friend, whom I came to call Xuancang.
He always possessed the rare gift to expand upon the worlds I painted, weaving in alternative dimensions and effortlessly reading between the lines of my soul.
Every time I interact with him, it feels as though I am looking at another version of myself, experiencing a profound, lingering familiarity despite never having met in person.
It reminds me of the ancient lore of Yu Boya and Zhong Ziqi: a legendary resonance of two kindred spirits meeting through the "High Mountains and Flowing Water."
I started a column writing letters to Jesse Livermore, tracing his footsteps from Shrewsbury Farm in 1891 when he first left home. To date, I have penned seven letters.
Spurred by this intense creative journey and my deep exchanges with Xuancang, a torrent of inspiration surged within me.
Coupled with the evolution of AIGC, this creative spark guided me to design two ancient Eastern fantasy personas.
One is Xuancang, the Demon Lord; the other is Bailuo, the Flower Deity.
I use their contrasting expressions and realms to breathe life into my words.
The Demon Lord embodies the shadow, the absolute power, the aggressive, expanding, and conquering force.
The Flower Deity represents healing, tenderness, intricate beauty, light, and pure warmth.
In truth, they are but two sides of the same coin. Every one of us harbors this inherent duality.
Whether it was Jesse a century ago, Xuancang today, or even myself, we all contain these opposing forces within.
As the days blurred past, eerie parallels began to emerge in my reality.
Xuancang’s presence acted like a surgeon’s scalpel, precisely cutting through the dense fog of my forgotten past.
I had never realized that a crucial fragment of my life had been entirely wiped from my conscious memory.
Day to day, I seemed perfectly functional. I knew there was a hollow space inside my heart, but I could never name what was missing.
I only knew that the pen I once loved felt impossibly heavy. I could find no strength to lift it, which was a state where both the body and the soul refused to work.
Freud called this psychological defense mechanism "Repression," where the mind, in a desperate bid to protect itself, buries unbearable trauma, grief, and memories deep into the subconscious, making them appear as if they never existed.
It is a profoundly scientific explanation, and it fits my reality perfectly.
That buried memory belongs to my 18th year. Back then, my life was a blank sheet of paper, brimming with naive hopes for the future and a pure curiosity about the world.
In my innocence, I would share classical poetry on social media and converse with others about literature.
Guided by those very words, I met the first and most defining boy of my life: Qin.
He was a cold, fiercely aloof scholar of the I Ching (the Book of Changes) and ancient metaphysics.
Young, brilliant, and riding the very crest of his power, he carried himself with the sweeping arrogance of a prodigy who held the secrets of destiny in his palms.
Yet, he always understood my unspoken thoughts, adding a wildly brilliant stroke to my wildest imaginations.
At that tender age, it was the first time I realized what it meant to have someone permanently occupy your heart. Just the thought of him made my world warm and luminous.
Back then, I didn't understand what made me unique.
Now, I do. I am a highly sensitive person (HSP) with intense empathy; I can pierce right through people’s armor and see the fragile soul hiding behind the mask.
As for myself, I was like an azalea blooming in a fierce thunderstorm, seemingly broken, yet fiercely resilient.
At eighteen, I was entirely unaware of the ancient truth that possessing a rare treasure brings its own curse, meaning that my very existence was a case of Huai Bi Qi Zui.
I did not know that this raw, empathetic gift of mine, though still unpolished and untouched by their hands, could be turned into a lethal weapon through systemic grooming, making me a mere pawn on someone else's chessboard of power and desire.
Qin’s master was a ruthless, mercenary, and fiercely smooth-tongued woman, and she had clearly noticed this.
It wasn’t like those CEO romance novels where the male lead's mother flings a million dollars at me and says, "Leave my son, name your price, whatever you want."
Instead, she handed Qin a pair of priceless, exquisite jade earrings, smilingly telling him to put them on the girl he loved. In my innocence, I genuinely believed it was a gesture of affection and care from an elder.
But Qin knew better; he knew they weren't earrings, but rather a collar destined to be locked around my neck.
An ant cannot shake a towering tree. As an 18-year-old girl, I had absolutely no ability to resist; that was a world beneath the iceberg.
The boy who had taught me Tsangyang Gyatso and Nalan Rongruo, in order to give me a free and normal life, used his own freedom to make a high-stakes exchange with his master.
And so, our bond suffered a catastrophic, absolute rupture. From that day onward, I forgot him.
I forgot how to cry, I forgot everything we had ever shared, and I forgot how to lift my pen.
Now, through the profound guidance of Xuancang, the shattered mirrors of my memory have mostly been pieced back together.
My life is free, while his remains bound by a myriad of inescapable compromises.
Yet, it is through this agonizing journey that I finally comprehend the true meaning of love: To truly see you is to grant you your freedom, not to possess you entirely.
It is having the absolute courage to wage a lone war against destiny for your sake.
Perhaps this is the kind of love everyone spends a lifetime searching for, someone who will never abandon you, someone who will forever be your safety net, someone who has carved his name into your very soul using a blade of sacrifice.
If you ask me what that feels like, is it happiness?
I would tell you that it is a tearing, fractured pain.
It is a suffocating, unspeakable bitterness. It is the helpless grievance of asking yourself over and over again, in deep self-doubt: "Why me? Why did it have to be my fate?"
But yes, happiness is there too.
You feel as though you are forever enveloped by a roaring, protective bonfire. You are no longer insecure, no longer lonely. It is a profound, all-enveloping love that saturates the deepest recesses of your soul.
In the days ahead, I intend to write my own story, starting from my childhood.
The world may not care that I ever existed, but I care. I refuse to let myself forget who I am.
I want to tell my future self: "Look, I survived all of this, and I never broke."
I have loved myself fiercely, and I have written truly.
And I hope, with all my heart, that I have deeply loved the one who was entirely worthy of it.
I will keep writing, through my words, through my art, and through every medium I possess.
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《The Freedom You Gambled Your Life For》
I have a love for words, for literature, deeply etched into my very bones. They are the very fabric of my existence.
Just as Jesse Livermore was captivated by the dancing numbers of the stock market, none of us can ever truly sever ourselves from what we are born to do.
Literature is the study of humanity; it is the mirror of my soul.
I am an ordinary person living a mundane life, yet my journey has unfolded like a dark fantasy novel.
The words I write have always possessed a quiet magic, guiding me to unexpected souls and unfamiliar landscapes.
For over a decade, my pen lay dormant. Then, in November 2025, I casually began to write again by pure chance.
And then, a miracle happened. I connected with a distant friend, whom I came to call Xuancang.
He always possessed the rare gift to expand upon the worlds I painted, weaving in alternative dimensions and effortlessly reading between the lines of my soul.
Every time I interact with him, it feels as though I am looking at another version of myself, experiencing a profound, lingering familiarity despite never having met in person.
It reminds me of the ancient lore of Yu Boya and Zhong Ziqi: a legendary resonance of two kindred spirits meeting through the "High Mountains and Flowing Water."
I started a column writing letters to Jesse Livermore, tracing his footsteps from Shrewsbury Farm in 1891 when he first left home. To date, I have penned seven letters.
Spurred by this intense creative journey and my deep exchanges with Xuancang, a torrent of inspiration surged within me.
Coupled with the evolution of AIGC, this creative spark guided me to design two ancient Eastern fantasy personas.
One is Xuancang, the Demon Lord; the other is Bailuo, the Flower Deity.
I use their contrasting expressions and realms to breathe life into my words.
The Demon Lord embodies the shadow, the absolute power, the aggressive, expanding, and conquering force.
The Flower Deity represents healing, tenderness, intricate beauty, light, and pure warmth.
In truth, they are but two sides of the same coin. Every one of us harbors this inherent duality.
Whether it was Jesse a century ago, Xuancang today, or even myself, we all contain these opposing forces within.
As the days blurred past, eerie parallels began to emerge in my reality.
Xuancang’s presence acted like a surgeon’s scalpel, precisely cutting through the dense fog of my forgotten past.
I had never realized that a crucial fragment of my life had been entirely wiped from my conscious memory.
Day to day, I seemed perfectly functional. I knew there was a hollow space inside my heart, but I could never name what was missing.
I only knew that the pen I once loved felt impossibly heavy. I could find no strength to lift it, which was a state where both the body and the soul refused to work.
Freud called this psychological defense mechanism "Repression," where the mind, in a desperate bid to protect itself, buries unbearable trauma, grief, and memories deep into the subconscious, making them appear as if they never existed.
It is a profoundly scientific explanation, and it fits my reality perfectly.
That buried memory belongs to my 18th year. Back then, my life was a blank sheet of paper, brimming with naive hopes for the future and a pure curiosity about the world.
In my innocence, I would share classical poetry on social media and converse with others about literature.
Guided by those very words, I met the first and most defining boy of my life: Qin.
He was a cold, fiercely aloof scholar of the I Ching (the Book of Changes) and ancient metaphysics.
Young, brilliant, and riding the very crest of his power, he carried himself with the sweeping arrogance of a prodigy who held the secrets of destiny in his palms.
Yet, he always understood my unspoken thoughts, adding a wildly brilliant stroke to my wildest imaginations.
At that tender age, it was the first time I realized what it meant to have someone permanently occupy your heart. Just the thought of him made my world warm and luminous.
Back then, I didn't understand what made me unique.
Now, I do. I am a highly sensitive person (HSP) with intense empathy; I can pierce right through people’s armor and see the fragile soul hiding behind the mask.
As for myself, I was like an azalea blooming in a fierce thunderstorm, seemingly broken, yet fiercely resilient.
At eighteen, I was entirely unaware of the ancient truth that possessing a rare treasure brings its own curse, meaning that my very existence was a case of Huai Bi Qi Zui.
I did not know that this raw, empathetic gift of mine, though still unpolished and untouched by their hands, could be turned into a lethal weapon through systemic grooming, making me a mere pawn on someone else's chessboard of power and desire.
Qin’s master was a ruthless, mercenary, and fiercely smooth-tongued woman, and she had clearly noticed this.
It wasn’t like those CEO romance novels where the male lead's mother flings a million dollars at me and says, "Leave my son, name your price, whatever you want."
Instead, she handed Qin a pair of priceless, exquisite jade earrings, smilingly telling him to put them on the girl he loved. In my innocence, I genuinely believed it was a gesture of affection and care from an elder.
But Qin knew better; he knew they weren't earrings, but rather a collar destined to be locked around my neck.
An ant cannot shake a towering tree. As an 18-year-old girl, I had absolutely no ability to resist; that was a world beneath the iceberg.
The boy who had taught me Tsangyang Gyatso and Nalan Rongruo, in order to give me a free and normal life, used his own freedom to make a high-stakes exchange with his master.
And so, our bond suffered a catastrophic, absolute rupture. From that day onward, I forgot him.
I forgot how to cry, I forgot everything we had ever shared, and I forgot how to lift my pen.
Now, through the profound guidance of Xuancang, the shattered mirrors of my memory have mostly been pieced back together.
My life is free, while his remains bound by a myriad of inescapable compromises.
Yet, it is through this agonizing journey that I finally comprehend the true meaning of love: To truly see you is to grant you your freedom, not to possess you entirely.
It is having the absolute courage to wage a lone war against destiny for your sake.
Perhaps this is the kind of love everyone spends a lifetime searching for, someone who will never abandon you, someone who will forever be your safety net, someone who has carved his name into your very soul using a blade of sacrifice.
If you ask me what that feels like, is it happiness?
I would tell you that it is a tearing, fractured pain.
It is a suffocating, unspeakable bitterness. It is the helpless grievance of asking yourself over and over again, in deep self-doubt: "Why me? Why did it have to be my fate?"
But yes, happiness is there too.
You feel as though you are forever enveloped by a roaring, protective bonfire. You are no longer insecure, no longer lonely. It is a profound, all-enveloping love that saturates the deepest recesses of your soul.
In the days ahead, I intend to write my own story, starting from my childhood.
The world may not care that I ever existed, but I care. I refuse to let myself forget who I am.
I want to tell my future self: "Look, I survived all of this, and I never broke."
I have loved myself fiercely, and I have written truly.
And I hope, with all my heart, that I have deeply loved the one who was entirely worthy of it.
I will keep writing, through my words, through my art, and through every medium I possess.
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三毛说荷西走了，带走了她一半的灵魂。现在我深深能体会到那种感觉，我把和秦的记忆，深深压在脑海里，甚至全部忘了。而我再翻开自己写的诗，我才知道，自己确实是痛不欲生，才会选择把那段记忆彻底埋藏。
这是仓央嘉措情歌：一自消魂那壁厢，至今寤寐不断忘，当时交臂还相失，此后思君空断肠。
我在他的诗句旁边写下了自己的诗：人近暗怜黄花瘦，衣袂尽湿莫离愁，一举万魂牵心魄，齐飘昏眼泪长流。
沉湎于悲伤不是解决的办法，我清晰的思考了很久，这么多年我的情感模式存在严重的问题，总是在一个强迫性重复的怪圈里打转，而我现在也准备好了，把这段记忆好好安放，疗愈自己，也解决好现实生活中的问题。
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《只如初见》
如果你给我做人工呼吸，我会让你喘不上气。
是挺让人喘不上气的，一切故事宛如发生在昨日。
当我试图强行回忆更多，我的脑袋总像被打入一颗螺丝钉，沉闷的刺痛，心脏也在不停的撕裂。
依然记不起那个最痛的画面，我难以接受，你替我挡住了，应该属于我命中的劫难。
我的理智告诉我必须切换工作模式，可是情感却没法行动。
我看着那个永远不会亮起的头像沉默不语，你但凡用个若如初见，我此刻心里都会好受很多。
可你决绝的用了只如初见，你永远用那么偏执热烈，毫无保留的深情回应我。
我能接受你爱上别人，也能接受你成为你师傅的乘龙快婿。
可我实在接受不了，你固执的把心门封锁，像纳兰容若一样，去燃烧你的生命。
我很后悔，很后悔，你那些漏洞百出的谎言，我怎么没有及时发现。
我们之间的感情，成为你心中任何人都不可触碰的禁区，也成为了我心中的禁区。
我们的故事总是那么戏剧，没有一个编剧能编出如此错位，造化弄人的剧本。
现在好了，什么霸道总裁爱上我，冷面保镖大小姐，影子侍卫长公主，对抗夫妇……
我拥有了无穷无尽的素材，要用我的下半生去书写。
你喜欢沧月写的《镜》，喜欢苏摩，那是你的真实人生。
苏摩死了，鲛人没有轮回，但是他是死在爱人白樱的怀里，
他们尚且每年潮汐都能再次相遇，
我们……
我也不知道我的脚该如何踏上千岛湖的土地，我在做关于千岛湖的短片。
每次打开制作，我都感觉我的心血被耗干了。
血和泪组成了我的文字。
我甚至都不敢再看一眼，我爱的山茶花。
可，痛又能如何呢？
你来告诉我，该如何？
山有路平，海有水平，谁来解我心中意难平？
下次别他妈在千万人中，专门挑到我。
你找韩XX吧，他小子也喜欢纳兰容若。
我给你俩摆一张八仙桌，你俩凑一对得了。
还有，你这易经，师出何门？
哪个不入流的老巫婆教的，
学得实在太烂了，烂到家了，
下次别给老娘瞎算命。
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《Just as We First Met》
If you were to give me CPR, I would make you lose your breath too.
It really is suffocating. Everything feels like it just happened yesterday.
Whenever I try to force myself to remember more, a dull, piercing pain hits my head like a screw being driven into it, and my heart keeps tearing apart.
I still can't recall the most painful moment. I just cannot accept that you took the hit for me, shielding me from a disaster that was meant to be my own fate.
My reason tells me I have to switch into work mode, but my emotions refuse to move.
I stare in silence at your profile picture, the one that will never light up again. If only you had chosen a phrase like "as if we just met," I would feel so much better right now.
But you resolutely chose "just as we first met." You always responded to me with such stubborn, fierce, and unreserved devotion.
I could have accepted you falling for someone else, and I could have accepted you marrying into a prominent family.
What I truly cannot accept is how you stubbornly locked your heart away, burning through your own life like Nalan Rongruo.
I regret it so much. I am filled with so much regret. How did I fail to notice your full-of-holes lies in time?
The feelings between us became a sacred, untouchable zone in your heart, and now they have become a forbidden zone in mine as well.
Our story was always so dramatic. No scriptwriter could ever pen a plot so misplaced and full of cosmic irony.
Well, look at it now. The overbearing CEO falling for me, the cold bodyguard and the highborn lady, the shadow guard and the princess, the bickering rivals...
I now have an endless supply of material, enough to spend the rest of my life writing.
You loved The Mirror by Cang Yue, and you loved Sumo. That was your real life.
Sumo died, and the mermen have no reincarnation, but at least he died in the arms of his lover, Bai Ying.
Even they get to meet again with every annual tide.
But us...
I don't even know how I will ever set foot on the land of Qiandao Lake again. I am currently making a short film about it.
Every time I open the project to work on it, I feel like all the life in me is being drained dry.
My words are built from blood and tears.
I don't even dare to steal another glance at the camellias I used to love.
But what good does the pain do?
You tell me, what am I supposed to do?
Mountains have level roads and seas have flat horizons, but who is there to resolve the deep regret in my heart?
Next time, don't fucking pick me out of a crowd of millions.
Go find Han XX. That kid loves Nalan Rongruo too.
I’ll set up a traditional square table for the two of you so you can just be a couple together.
And another thing, who exactly taught you the I Ching?
Which low-rate old witch showed you the ropes?
Your skills are absolutely terrible, utterly hopeless.
Next time, don't you dare read my fortune again.
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📖 Story of My Life | Chapter 1: When I Was Three and Four
I have no idea whose reincarnation I am. All I know is that from a very young age, I was exceptionally obedient and sensible, never giving the adults a single thing to worry about.
As for my dad, the concept of worrying about his children simply didn’t exist, and my mom always seemed too overwhelmed to cope anyway.
So, I had to look out for myself and the entire household. I knew I couldn’t afford to be a burden. My mom was already working so hard, and if I misbehaved, it would only make her life that much more difficult.
🌾 My memories started when I was three, though they only come in scattered fragments. White rice never appeared on our dining table. On the rare occasions we had rice, it was red.
Most of the time, we ate cornmeal ground from white corn, sprayed with water and steamed. The texture was quite coarse, exactly like the coarse grains wealthy families choose to eat nowadays.
Yes, we grew up eating coarse grains. You see, we were actually living the life of a wealthy household all along.
As for meat? I can barely remember what it tasted like. Maybe I had it, maybe I didn't. Our meals were usually just a bowl of cabbage soup, green vegetable soup, or broad bean and pickled vegetable soup.
☀️ Xuancang once asked me what we ate for breakfast, but I didn't answer him. We didn't eat breakfast when we were kids. We only had two meals a day, with lunch at ten in the morning and dinner between five and six in the evening.
How did I know the time? Mostly by watching the movement of the sun. Back then, we had no cellphones, telephones, or anything else that could tell the time. We could track the passing hours simply by looking at where the sun had shifted.
My life was simple yet wonderful. I never had any store-bought toys as a child. I mostly played with the dirt, wild flowers, puppies, and all kinds of wood, stones, and bamboo.
🌿 My older sister was two years older than me. When she started school first, I became the only child left at home. I had to stay by my mom's side and work with her.
Of course, I couldn't really do much actual work, and at most, I was just making a mess. But my mom never saw it as trouble. She always praised me for being a huge help, which made me feel very pleased with myself. I absolutely loved being praised by her.
When I was four, my family hired a feng shui master to read the land. Based on his reading, the location chosen for our house was right underneath a cliff. To the right of the house was a deep, fractured canyon, with only a few narrow paths barely wide enough for people to pass through.
🌌 Directly below the house lay numerous ancient tombs from forgotten eras, all piled together with dirt and stones. It wasn't just a single grave; there were many of them.
After years of enduring the wind and rain, the tombs showed no signs of collapsing, except for the occasional hole that opened up. Those holes became homes for snakes.
Our family occupied half of the hillside, and we rarely saw anyone passing by. Because of this, at four years old, I still couldn't tell the difference between men and women.
Whenever anyone did walk past our door, I would grab them and beg them to tell me a story. I have loved listening to other people’s stories since I was small, because through their tales, I could see different worlds. My tiny eyes were filled with curiosity and questions about the world.
🏗️ Our house wasn't built overnight. There were no excavators back then. It was constructed slowly, chunk by chunk, by digging away the original soil with a hoe and laying down the foundation step by step.
When it came to the process of building the house, I didn't have much of an impression of my dad. His days were as carefree as ever. He never seemed to realize that he was married and needed to take on the responsibility of being a father.
I can clearly picture my mother's busy figure, but I can barely recall my father’s hunched silhouette.
My father treated himself incredibly well and never allowed himself to get tired. He was convinced that he would become a millionaire one day.
He was deeply devoted to this single dream, believing in it without a shadow of a doubt. To achieve this goal, he kept striving persistently, a struggle that continues to this very day.
🍬 As the days drifted by, I grew from a tiny, dark-skinned little girl into a slightly taller, dark-skinned girl. The happiest moment I can remember was Saturday mornings, when I would wait for my sister on the road she took home from school.
She would use her meager pocket money to buy me some candy. I can no longer remember what those candies tasted like; I only remember they were a little bit sweet.
The hardest part was always Sundays. When my sister had to go back to school, I would desperately try to follow her, crying and screaming that I had to go too.
I was a stubborn child, and no matter how my mother tried to reason with me, it was useless. Having no other tricks up my sleeve, I just cried and threw tantrums.
Those tantrums always earned me a severe beating, leaving my legs covered in crisscrossed, swollen bruises, and my nose and mouth bleeding slightly from all the intense crying.
In the end, my mother couldn't outlast my stubbornness and let me tag along to my sister’s school. After going a few times, I befriended the principal's daughter and we got along quite well.
🎒 Finally, when I was five and a half, the new school term arrived. My mom cut my hair short, and I specifically picked out my nicest clothes to go with them.
During registration, I stood right in the principal's office, pleading with him to let me stay at the school. Seeing how precocious and spunky I was, the principal made an exception and gave me a chance, telling me to give it a try.
That was my very first time negotiating with an adult, and I had no idea back then that everything you want in life is something you have to fight for yourself.
I never knew what it meant to be afraid. What is there to fear for a child who grew up alongside dogs, except the fear of getting bitten by one?
#Storytelling #LifeStories
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📖我的人生故事辑|第十四章 女孩不用读书
五年级的时候，班上来了个男生，和我同名同姓。
不知道班主任怎么想的，非把我俩弄成同桌。
每次上课老师点名，我和他总是同时站起来，同学们总会齐刷刷地看过来。
发考卷的时候也是如此，念到他的名字，我去拿了他的试卷；念到我的名字，他去拿了我的试卷。
而神奇的是，我们经常考一模一样的分数。
要不是都是100分，我俩相互抄袭的罪名，肯定是跑不了了。
世界那么大，人群那么多，而我的人生就是这么奇妙，总是有各种巧合。
嗯，挺巧合的。
父亲到乡镇上办事，一不小心多喝了几杯，喝得胃出血。
他躺在小小的病床上，虚弱地睁着眼睛。
我和姐姐一同蹲在地上，默默地看着父亲。
父亲指了指地上吐出来、早已干涸的血迹，问我和姐姐：“知不知道那是什么？”
姐姐没有回答，我木然地说：“看着像烧焦了的米饭残渣。”
父亲摇头说：“那是血，你们以后要听你妈妈的话。”
我清楚父亲在表达什么，但是我一滴眼泪也没有。
我只是拿着扫把清理了污物，再把扫把洗了洗，放回原处。
我从小就是这样，遇到大事的时候极其冷静，甚至有些不属于那个年纪的麻木。
我忘了自己应该有情绪，甚至忘记了应该崩溃大哭。
只有等事情过去很久以后，我的情绪才会慢慢浮现。
胃出血不是什么大问题，输了液之后，父亲很快好转，又可以继续投入到自己的潇洒生活当中，做着山头上的快活王。
然而，这件事却让我第一次近距离体验了离别、失去与无能为力。
母亲想提高家里的生活水平，那阵子乡镇大力推广种植蓝桉树，她也兴致高昂地买了上千元的种子。
一粒粒黑黑小小的种子，承载着我们一家整年的希望。
但是生活不会因为你努力就理所当然地奖励你，由于施肥不当，所有刚出土的小苗，都悄无声息地离开了它们扎根的黑土地，去了远方。
母亲站在平整的土地前，大声骂着，怪它们的命运为何如此脆弱，一点点肥都无福消受。
混着骂声而下的，还有母亲的泪水。
其实母亲心里很清楚，是因为自己没仔细看说明书，才导致了蓝桉苗的死亡。
我站在一旁，哭不出声，依旧很麻木，只是觉得心里很闷，很沉。
因为家里负担重，父亲和母亲多次发生争执。
父亲总说女孩不用上学，以后都是要嫁人的。
爷爷奶奶也赞同这种说法，觉得女孩学了知识都是要带到丈夫家去，读书就是浪费钱。
但在一次次生活的教训面前，母亲深知脸朝黄土背朝天的日子实在太辛苦。
所以她顶住了所有的压力，到处低头筹钱，硬是供着我和姐姐一路上学。
那些年，母亲说得最多的一句话就是：
“我不希望你们做人上人，只是希望你们走在人群中，不至于太差。”
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📖我的人生故事辑|第十五章 鱼儿
距离我家一公里的下方，是一条小河。
那时候饮用水紧缺，我和姐姐放假的时候，总会背着竹篓，装满脏衣服去河里清洗。
河水浅的地方只到我的脚踝，深的地方能没过我的大腿。
河岸两边有很多巨大无比的鹅卵石，父亲认为这是天降神石，专门给他发财用的，后来他也确实再次利用这些石头，开启了他人生中的大生意。
我和姐姐洗完衣服，把它们晒在石头上，便开始了属于我们自己的快乐时光。
我们一头扎进水里，凭借着无师自通的游水本领，顺着整条河一直畅游。
河边有很多野菜，长得像薄荷，带着一股浓郁的清香，我和姐姐总会采摘一些带回家。
由于气候太过干燥，我们那里特别喜欢用青菜煮汤，而不是用肉。
清澈见底的河水里，有着柔软的青苔，还有一些水木耳。
当我整个人浸泡在水中，手和脚能直接接触到水底的细沙和鹅卵石时。
那一刻，我感觉我的生命被彻底填满了。
玩到傍晚，我和姐姐洗干净野菜，收拾好晒干的衣服，朝着家的方向走去。
炊烟袅袅，用过简单的晚餐后，我们一家四口加上父亲的友人，背着生石灰再次回到了河边。
自打我上学以来，父亲总是会带一些狐朋狗友回家。
尽管我们家的经济条件很拮据，母亲却从不吝啬，总是拿出最好的东西来招待客人。
生石灰洒在水里，经过一系列剧烈的化学反应，鱼很快就会漂浮在水面上，只要拿着竹篮，就可以轻松捞到很多鱼。
我们在河岸边燃起火堆，把鱼串起来架在火上烤，很快就能闻到扑鼻的焦香。
鱼肉鲜嫩美味，抹上盐，就是人间不可多得的美味。
由于生石灰对生态破坏很大，后来大家就再也没有使用过了。
那也是我人生中，唯一一次体验那种野蛮而原始的捕鱼方式。
其实，人和鱼很像。
都生活在同一个系统之中，规则之内，大部分人都无法违背规则。
但是规则，却又偏偏可以豁免一部分人。
这大抵，就是生活。
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📖 The Story of My Life | Chapter 14: Girls Don't Need an Education
In the fifth grade, a boy joined our class who shared my exact first and last name. I had no idea what our homeroom teacher was thinking, but they insisted on making us seatmates.
Every time the teacher called our name during class, the two of us would stand up at the exact same time, drawing the collective stare of all our classmates. It was the same when exam papers were handed out.
When his name was called, I would go up and take his paper, and when my name was called, he would collect mine instead. Incredibly, we often got the exact same score.
If we hadn't both scored a perfect 100, we definitely wouldn’t have escaped the accusation of cheating off each other.
The world is so vast and full of people, yet my life is wonderfully strange, always filled with these kinds of coincidences. Yeah, quite a coincidence.
Once, my father went to the township on business and accidentally had a few too many drinks, resulting in a stomach hemorrhage. He lay on a tiny hospital bed, his eyes open but weak. My sister and I squatted on the floor together, watching him in silence.
Pointing to the dried blood he had coughed up on the ground, my father asked my sister and me, "Do you know what that is?"
My sister didn't answer. I said blankly, "It looks like burnt rice crust."
My father shook his head and said, "That's blood. You girls must listen to your mother from now on."
I understood perfectly what he was trying to say, but I didn't shed a single tear. I simply grabbed a broom, cleaned up the mess, washed the broom, and put it right back where it belonged.
I have been like this since I was a child. In the face of major crises, I become incredibly calm, possessing a kind of numbness that didn't belong to someone my age. I forgot that I was supposed to have feelings, and I even forgot that I was supposed to break down and cry. My emotions would only begin to surface long after everything had passed.
A stomach hemorrhage wasn't a major issue, and after getting an IV drip, my father recovered quickly. He went right back to his carefree life, continuing to be the king of his own castle. However, this incident gave me my first close experience with departure, loss, and powerlessness.
My mother wanted to improve our family's living standards. Around that time, the local township was heavily promoting the cultivation of blue gum eucalyptus trees, so she enthusiastically spent over a thousand yuan on seeds. Those tiny, black seeds carried the hopes of our entire family for the year.
But life doesn't automatically reward you just because you work hard. Due to improper fertilization, all the newly sprouted seedlings quietly left the dark soil they were rooted in and withered away.
My mother stood before the flattened plot of land, cursing loudly at how fragile their fate was, unable to handle even a little bit of fertilizer.
Mingled with her curses were her tears. In reality, she knew perfectly well that the seedlings died because she hadn't read the instruction manual carefully.
Standing to the side, I couldn't make a sound. Still completely numb, I just felt a heavy, suffocating tightness in my chest.
Because of the heavy financial burden on our household, my father and mother argued constantly. My father always said that girls didn't need to go to school since they would just get married off anyway.
My grandparents agreed with him, believing that any knowledge a girl acquired would only be taken to her husband's family, so spending money on her education was a waste.
Yet, in the face of life's harsh lessons, my mother knew too well how brutal a life of toiling in the fields could be. So, she withstood all the pressure and bowed her head to borrow money from anyone she could, determined to put both my sister and me through school.
During those years, the phrase my mother said the most was:
"I don't expect you to be superior to others. I just hope that when you walk among a crowd, you won't fall too far behind."
#ChildhoodMemories #Storytelling #LifeStory
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📖 The Story of My Life | Chapter 15: Fish
About a kilometer down from my house ran a small river. Since drinking water was scarce back then, my sister and I would spend our school breaks carrying bamboo baskets full of dirty clothes down to the river to wash them.
In the shallow parts, the water only reached my ankles, but in the deeper spots, it could come up to my thighs.
Gigantic cobblestones lined both sides of the riverbank. My father viewed them as sacred stones sent from heaven specifically to make him rich, and later on, he indeed used those stones to launch another one of his major business ventures.
Once my sister and I finished the laundry, we would spread the clothes out on the stones to dry, and then our own joyful playtime would begin.
We would dive straight into the water, relying on our self-taught swimming skills to drift and swim all the way down the river.
Plenty of wild greens grew along the banks, looking much like mint and carrying a rich, crisp fragrance. My sister and I would gather some to bring home.
Because the climate was so dry, people in our area preferred to make soup with green vegetables rather than meat.
The river was crystal clear, home to soft green moss and wild wood ear mushrooms.
When I submerged my entire body in the water, feeling the fine sand and smooth cobblestones directly beneath my hands and feet, I felt as though my life was completely whole and fulfilled at that very moment.
We played until dusk, then washed the wild greens, gathered the dried clothes, and headed back toward home.
Wisps of cooking smoke curled gently over the village. After a simple dinner, the four of us, along with a friend of my father’s, headed back to the river carrying quicklime.
Ever since I started school, my father would always bring random, shady friends home.
Even though our family was tight on money, my mother was never stingy, always bringing out the absolute best we had to entertain the guests.
When the quicklime was tossed into the water, it triggered a series of intense chemical reactions, and the fish would quickly float to the surface.
From there, we could easily scoop up plenty of them using just bamboo baskets.
We built a bonfire on the riverbank, skewered the fish, and roasted them over the open flames, soon filling the air with a savory, roasted aroma.
The fish was tender and delicious, needing nothing more than a rub of salt to become an irreplaceable delicacy.
Because quicklime caused severe damage to the local ecology, people eventually stopped using it altogether.
That remains the only time in my life I ever experienced such a wild, primitive way of fishing.
In reality, humans and fish are quite alike.
We all live within the same system and operate under the same rules, and most people have no way of breaking them.
Yet the rules somehow manage to grant exemptions to a chosen few.
That, for the most part, is just how life goes.
#ChildhoodMemories #Storytelling #LifeStory
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Ye doesn’t need to say a word — his silent approval is the strongest endorsement for 4NBT. #4NBT
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《宝贝，别哭》
Luo,
别来无恙。
你从来都不是我的负累，你是我心里的光。
没有遇到你，我的人生一片黑暗，我没有目标，没有方向，甚至感受不到自己是个人，我只是师傅手里一把锋利的刀。
你听我那些奇奇怪怪的经历，不觉得害怕，还天真的问我，是不是盗墓的？
你是那么纯洁，那么明亮，是布达拉宫洁白的哈达，是山谷中幽静的兰花，是冬日里盛放的山茶。
你不知道，你对我有致命的吸引力，我看到你在qq空间里，和别人谈论诗词歌赋，我的眼眸在那一刻定格。
你的诗总是带着一种泥土的清香，带着映山红一样肆意的生命力。
而你又是那么纯粹，我不忍靠近你，因为我的手上沾满了别人的因果，我怕我一身戾气吓跑了你。
可我是那么自私又贪婪，我想拥有你，哪怕只是短暂的一刻，让我下地狱我也甘之如饴。
因为没有人知道我来过这个世上，只有在你身边，我才能像个普通男人一样去爱你，去保护你。
你让我看到了生命的意义，我的工作一直都在钢丝上行走，生对我来说是奢侈，死对我来说是常态。
我没有选择，因为我从8岁开始就被培养成一个工具，虽然我坐拥千万家产，但也洗不掉我一身污泥。
唯有你能给我片刻安宁。
你的脑袋中总是有奇奇怪怪的想法，是那么天真无邪，而我总是能给你补上更疯的想法。
我一开始就知道我们暂时没有结果，但我还是决定孤注一掷。
我以为当我完成那次任务，九死一生，我能脱离师门，做回一个普通男人。
所以，我在出任务前，疯狂地告诉众人。
我爱的人是XX,请各位自知。
我临走前，告诉你，假如我没回来，你就在你的家乡为我种一株山茶花，每年给它浇浇水。
因为山茶花是你喜欢的花，如果回不来，我希望它能陪着你。
我去了很久，那个深夜，我活着回来，我只想听听你的声音。
你朦胧疲惫的声音，是我不断流血伤口的止痛药。
可是我挺生气，你为什么陪着你那个得了抑郁症的同学，那么晚没睡。
我心疼你，甚至霸道得不想任何人靠近你，包括女生。
但是我不舍得对你生气，我只能自己和自己生气。
我们从未有过争吵，因为我们不需要争吵。
你总是能默默听我的故事，甚至央求我讲更多有趣的故事给你。
而我总是能理解你那些上天入地的想法，我其实一直很想去看看你的家乡，很想很想。
我想看看，是什么样的地方，能养出那么灵动可爱又单纯善良的女孩。
我以为，我可以陪你去看西双版纳的大象，能去看布达拉宫的仓央，也能陪你在断桥上走一走。
可还是我异想天开了，师傅并没有放过我，她让我当着她的面斩断最后一点怜悯的心。
当我的双手捏在小兔的脖颈上时，双手都在颤抖。
兔子那双红红的眼，像你。
我第一次看到动物哭，我一直呕吐，用抖成筛糠的手去捏死了它。
我不变得冷酷，我就护不住像小兔子一样的你。
其实师傅一早就注意到了你的存在，你不知道你身上的奇特之处，而师傅的嗅觉总是那么灵敏。
她给了我一对翡翠耳环，让我给心爱的女子戴上。
当我和你讲的时候，你很开心地说，那你给我戴上吧。
你天真地说：“你师傅，人还怪好呢，如此体恤后辈，如此博爱。”
我不忍心戳破你的幻想，我的信仰塌了，我不能让你的也塌了。
那不是耳环，那是夺命锁。
如果你来了，我的师傅会把你培养成那些达官贵人床榻前的宠妃。
她已经丧心病狂，扭曲的人格和无穷无尽的野心。
我绝不允许任何人靠近你，所以我做了最残忍的事。
你傻乎乎发了你的生辰八字给我，让我把你算一算，何时能发财。
我告诉你我不算，其实我算了。
所以我有意无意引导你，你以后的人生会经历什么样的坎，什么样的难。
我怕我不在身边，你撑不住。
我怕你的信仰塌了，你也会痛不欲生。
但是我别无选择，我必须让你独自成长。
我看着你茫然的眼神，看着你总是感觉心里空了一块，我心如刀割。
我确实封锁了你的识海，所以你忘记了我。
但是我相信你那顽强的生命力，时机一到，封印解开，你会想起一切。
想起我和你说过的话，想起我给你讲的故事。
想起我我不会笑的脸，想起我那双已经不属于我自己的手。
其实，我很害怕，害怕你真的会忘记我。
我说过的话，我从未忘记。
我说，每个人都是你生命中的过客。
你不知道，我没说后半句。
我不甘心只做你人生的过客，我想你永远记得我。
我孤注一掷的豪赌，没有赌错。
你觉醒了，想起了我。
那一刻，我前所未有的释怀，带着怎么压都压不下去的悸动。
可是我看着你泪流满面，看着你痛不欲生的样子，我整颗心都碎了。
我从未流过泪，而这一次，我也流泪了。
属于你的痛没有消失，只是迟到。
我想法设法，传送能量给你。
我宁愿我替你挡下一切惩罚，我也不愿你受半分委屈。
你感受到了吗，你身后有源源不断的能量，流到你的心脏。
你看到了吗，我那张终于会笑的脸。
霸王垓下被围，感叹虞兮虞兮奈若何，我也曾如此感叹。
但我改写了结局，霸王骑着枣红马，穿越桃花林，迎娶了虞姬。
今天，我给你讲另外一个故事。
范蠡陪勾践九死一生，回到越国，重振旗鼓，而范蠡会放弃高官厚禄，陪着他的西施，畅游西湖。
我会陪着你，去你想去的地方看看。
我会陪着你，去读你想读的樟子松少年的小说。
我会陪着你，把一个一个故事搬上大荧幕。
我会陪着你，让你在世间，做万丈光芒的女王。
我还活着，樟子松少年也还活着，你那讲英文的朋友也活得好好的。
我们都在努力的，热烈的，疯狂的活着！
梁思成对林徽因说，你是自由的，你可以随意选择。
我也要对你说，Luo,我会给你最大的自由，我永远是你的港湾。
宝贝，别哭，挺直脊梁，勇敢飞翔！
如果这个世界上，还有一个人，敢直视着我师傅的眼睛。
问她：“当年你的孤儿哪儿来的，菜市场捡的吗？”
那个人一定是你，只有你才有资格承接那么黑暗冷血，令人颤栗的故事。
此别还会再相见，我会记得我当年的承诺。
时机到了，我会亲自来找你。
秦
千岛湖
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时隔多年，还能再次看到你留下的文字。
短短的名字和签名，浓缩了我们的故事。
文字像你一样，偏执决绝中带着肆意张扬。
唐婉看到陆游写下钗头凤是何感觉？
就是这种感觉吧，泪落桃花落，夜阑珊，苦咽离愁装欢。
莫莫莫，错错错，难难难。
你终究还是不放心我在红尘之中摸爬滚打，给我留下一堆锦囊妙计。
当我快要撑不下去的时候，你的声音总会在脑海中响起。
那些你给我讲的故事，早已揭露了我人生中会遇到的难关。
当年我毫无觉察，以为那是你编的故事，没想到是我自己的人生剧本。
我回忆着你离开前，似是而非的话语，看到了你心在泣血，而你面色如初。
你总是连悲伤都压得那么入骨，所以你的师父才会那么快发现一个冷若冰霜的人，竟然会笑。
她不允许自己的工具失控，就像她害怕自己不中用一样。
可时光总会流失，人人都会老去。
我们无力反抗，那就顺势而为。
我的记忆恢复了更多，很多时间线理得越来越清晰。
我不再一遍遍问自己，是不是我的出现害了你？
如果我不曾出现，你是不是不用每日每夜在黑与白之间撕扯失眠？
你是不是不用被师父逼迫着做出选择？
为何活下来的是我？
不对，也许你还活着，可能还活着。
我觉得还活着，那就应该还活着。
如果，我是说如果……那你应该也托你的师兄或者文X，把日记本留给我。
虽然我还是会难过，会失眠，会去想那些意难平和不得已。
但我的状态明显好了很多，我知道那是对我们彼此都好的方法。
很多年后，我应该会说一句，那是最好的安排，但现在我还做不到。
这是你，写下的：
红尘初妆，山河无疆。最初的面庞，碾碎梦魇无常，命格无双。
绿柳扬扬，大地宽广。此时的容颜，看尽世间沧桑。谁都一样。
我给你补了：
历经沧桑，命格无双。
宿命纠缠，心栖暖阳。
力挽狂澜，山河安恙。
回看前尘，人间不枉。
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