Forum Banner

Forum :: General :: General Talk :: Fragmented - View Topic
Topic Rating: *****
Printable View
New Member

Posts: 11
Status: Offline


Reputation: 0%  

Fragmented (28th Nov 22 at 1:16am UTC)
I think Zhang Lei likes to sleep with me, especially after she went to college. When her parents divorced, we only went to college for two months. She lived with her mother in the tube-shaped apartment of the Conservatory of Music. But on the 3rd of every month, she would go to her father's house in the family building of Tiantan Hospital to ask for 100 yuan. Every time she wouldn't let me go with her. Zhang Lei's mother didn't care much about her. Soon after, her mother got married again and lived with a violinist in North Taipingzhuang. The house of the Conservatory of Music was empty, so I moved in. Although I lived on campus when I went to college, I seldom went there. After the third grade, I went there twice a week at most. I didn't like to go to school and would rather sleep in the dormitory of the Conservatory of Music. Later, during the four years of college, Zhang Lei and I lived together as husband and wife. It was the happiest four years in my life. Because of happiness, I had almost no impression in retrospect, only a faint feeling of happiness. Zhang Lei played her piano, I read my novel, we went shopping together, cooked together, and watched a nine-inch black-and-white TV set together. We listened to that little brick tape recorder together. We listened to some records together. We had a cat, and then we lost it. We had a few tropical fish, and then nothing happened. We made love almost every day. Later, a month before graduation, Zhang Lei and I went to a friend's house to play. On the way back, our taxi collided with an oncoming truck. I don't remember the circumstances. Anyway, when I regained consciousness, I found myself lying in the hospital with bandages all over my body. Three months later, I was discharged from the hospital,faux grass wall, but Zhang Lei was dead. Her head was crushed in the crash, as I was told by someone at the hospital. After Zhang Lei died, I was sad for a long time. Because I couldn't bear the pain and loneliness of losing her, I found another girl and told her about the thing between me and Zhang Lei every day. After half a year, the girl finally lost patience and left me. Later, the time when I was full of popular romantic feelings officially came to an end. In that passage, I read a lot of French Romantic works, Chabou-Dorion, Hugo,artificial coconut palm trees, Musset, Wordsworth, Byron and so on, and even Dante. Rossetti watched it, too. Later, of course, after a long time, that is, many years later. Years later, I had forgotten all about those romantic stories, and my way of life had changed greatly. I earned a lot of money by writing plays, slept with a lot of girls, slept with my head covered during the day, and went out to a small circle of friends at night, often drinking until dawn. If you see a book like Love Story and throw it into the garbage can without reading it, maybe this is the so-called growth. Later, artificial plant wall panels ,outdoor palm trees, it should be about Zhang Lei's memory. About Zhang Lei's memory, what is more profound is going to bed.
We often listen to music while making love, Zhang Lei's requirements for making love completely follow the requirements of music, if it is a pop song, then a mix is over, if it is jazz, it has to be erratic, If it is classical music, it can be complex-symphony to momentum like a rainbow, violin must be tactful and lingering, piano must be poetic and picturesque, quartet must show the image of four men. Whenever she pulls out a CD from a long row of CDs, my heart "beats" to my throat. It's no problem to deal with things like sketches, but symphonies really make me sweat, not to mention the difficulty of simulating a band of more than 100 people making love with her in turn, and the playing time of about an hour alone makes me unable to cope with it. One day she excitedly told me to buy a set of Wagner's four stage programs, The Ring of the Nibelungen, and explained it to me like a family treasure. It was a set of 16 records produced by Decca Company. Solti conducted and the Vienna Philharmonic performed. The first two were two hours of "Rhine Gold". Although my face was ashen, I could barely support it. But when she said "Flying Valkyries" and threw four records in front of me, I not only felt powerless, but immediately lost my soul. Wagner's internal force was so strong that everyone knew that you couldn't play a hundred heavy metal records at the same time. Besides, the ideas permeated in his works could not be approached by sexual intercourse alone, so I rolled my eyes. Almost shouted with a Wagnerian aria-the band is off tonight and the performance is over! After Zhang Lei died, I moved back home and stayed in the corner where I was forgotten by pornography. I didn't sleep with a girl for half a year. Those CDs were thrown into a big suitcase on the balcony because they had too many sexual intercourse memories. 23 Later, later-later-no later, none later, all nonsense! There is no later, all later is nonsense! I like to lie to myself with nonsense, lying to myself that the present life is illusory and that there is another life in my memory. Another kind of life I want. When I am romantic, I want a romantic life. When I am dissolute, I will have a dissolute life. I can do whatever I want. I read a paragraph of text, will imagine, in the imagination of that text into another reality about me, my story, I through the imagination to write down a paragraph of events that have nothing to do with me, I write vividly, lifelike, vivid, like "Love Story", like Qiongyao's novel, like "Lady of the Camellias". Just like all the unspeakable, fascinating and tear-jerking lies, just like my work, just like the plays I wrote. I asked myself, what is that? What's all that? What are those things placed in libraries, bookstores, bookshelves and under the pillows of middle school students? And what is behind those things? Who will tell us the truth? The truth is that everything, everything is nonsense, all irrelevant, all contrary to reality. The truth is that we don't like reality, which would be worthless if it were written, bound, covered,outdoor ficus tree, and priced. Reality is worthless. Reality is hopeless. Reality has nothing to say but nothing to say. Reality is Beckett. It is absurd. It is a joke. It is an ellipsis. No one likes a blank. A blank is something that must be smeared, filled, and covered up.
 Printable View

All times are GMT+0 :: The current time is 6:27am
Page generated in 19.0529 seconds
Purchase Ad-Free Credits
This Forum is Powered By vForums (v2.4)
Create a Forum for Free | Find Forums