说“废话”

上一个账号被封得莫名其妙，是忙到完全没空登录微博的一周。等元旦后想起来上微博看看朋友，才发现自己在两天前被封禁。理由是——违规操作。

没有登录过，所以“操作”是什么？自己也弄不明白。申诉也失败了。

这种事，在某地，是不应感到奇怪的。一种local resident的觉悟。

慢慢适应整一月，才明白不是被“封”，应是被“炸”，被炸的账号变成人间的孤魂野鬼——我能看见你，你看不见我。我在你们身边穿梭，你们感受不到我。

这个封禁规则，还蛮独特。

有人说，能说废话是幸福的证明。

最近没有废话，作息混乱，运动频率降低，日子过得乱七八糟，把执拗用在和院子里的crab grass对抗。无奈拔草（字面意思）的速度赶不上草生长的速度。没办法，这是夏季，是它的主场。

倒也不是喜欢和满院子weed较劲，只是喜欢沉默着做重复的事，沉浸其中，把世界全都忘了。

院子里的小蚊虫可不会这样，它们赠我一腿的包，痒到早晨六点醒过来。

不说话就平静，一直不说话，就一直往下沉，沉静到恍若隔世。

我需要运动续命。

出门骑车很好，可是它太快，在风里穿梭可自由，但是我喜欢走路。

喜欢边走边摸一摸路边植物，湿漉漉软绵绵的青苔，痒痒的松柏，或者只是踩在落叶的腐殖层，松软且安心。

一三五徒步，二四六骑车，星期天去海边。

计划总是不错的，我也曾有很多不错的计划。

只是计划。

和soulmate保持着淡淡的联系，啊，想到她就感动。

上一年我们在太行、五台、鼓楼、港岛。

此刻，她在土耳其，我在纽西兰。

想起离开五台回到北京的那个晚上，坐在飞机上等待闪电雷鸣暴风雨过去，写下的话——

“世界这么大，不在这里见，就在那里见。

重要的是，这世界还有我想见且愿意创造条件见一面的人。

其实不见是自然，相见是一种决心呐。

想到电影《机器人之梦》的结尾。”

还记得在首都机场，写下那些记录时，那一刻听的歌是罗大佑《海上告别》。

也有想而不能见的人。想而不问。梦中见。

出来以后，网易云的歌大多都听不了，重新用起了Spotify，没有买会员，被迫听随机歌单，有时候也能随机到很久以前的声音。

《追光者》是2017在深圳时公寓附近一所中学的放学音乐，每天下午五点会准时响起。

那年秋冬北京发生好多事，是political depression最严重的时候。在家呆坐，从早到晚，不吃不喝，只是沉默，到这音乐响起，就知道又虚度了一天，只好打开复习资料随便看看。

至今还记得那一年夕阳的颜色。

这样的音乐还有很多。

《童话镇》是2017上半年图书馆的闭馆音乐。

《张三的歌》听了十几年，是很多自己拥抱自己的瞬间。最近一次，它是海南的一个机场，凌晨两点。

勉力说废话，说了好多。

幸不幸福呢？我不知道。

说废话，和数独一样，是我的思维体操。

最近看完一部和棋有关的剧，想起中学时代自己的棋下得很好，尤其是中国象棋，车轮战也没输过。后来，规则都忘了。

人到中年，比较适合自己和自己下。

也许还能重新学会。

希望自己永远不要丢掉说废话的能力，学习的能力。永远有勇气走出去，一直走，救自己于抑郁深潭千千万万次。

拔草，偶尔手痒还会拔几根，但基本不拔了。它是一年生植物，喜阳喜热，秋天一来，就会死。

人生里很多的心情就像这种杂草，在特定的时间里生命力旺盛，越拔越多。索性随它去。它有它的生命周期。

可是这种草，在死亡之前会快速释放出几千颗种子，等待第二年春夏发芽。

不死的杂早，不死的记忆。占据我的院子、我的生命。

“与艺术相伴，就是让艺术占用我们的注意力，想象力和聪明才智，以此赋予艺术生命。”

想起这句话。

End

下面是Chatty的翻译，大概翻对了90%，挺不错的。

My previous account was banned for no apparent reason. It was a week so busy I had no time to log into Weibo. When I remembered to check it after New Year, I found out my account had been banned two days earlier, for “violating rules.” I hadn’t logged in, so what “operation” they referred to, I couldn’t figure out. The appeal was also unsuccessful.

This kind of thing isn’t too surprising in some places. It’s just part of the mindset of being a local resident.

It took me about a month to adapt and only then did I realize that it wasn’t so much that I was “banned,” but rather “exploded.” My account had been transformed into a wandering ghost—like a restless soul in the world of the living. I can see you, but you can’t see me. I walk among you, and yet you feel nothing.

This banning rule is rather unique.

Some say that being able to talk nonsense is a sign of happiness.

Recently, I haven’t had any nonsense to say—my routine is a mess, I exercise less frequently, and my life feels all over the place. I’ve been stubbornly fighting the crabgrass in the yard, but the speed at which I pull them out can’t keep up with how fast they grow. It’s the summer, and it’s their turf.

I don’t necessarily enjoy fighting with weeds in the yard, but I like silently doing repetitive things, immersing myself in them and forgetting the world. The little mosquitoes in the yard, however, aren’t as silent. They’ve gifted me with itchy bites that keep me awake at 6 a.m.

Not speaking feels peaceful. If I don’t speak at all, I just keep sinking deeper and deeper, sinking so much it feels like being in a different world.

I need exercise to stay alive.

Going out for a bike ride is great, but it’s too fast. The wind rushing past feels free, but I like walking. I enjoy touching the plants along the way—damp, soft moss, the itchy pines, or just stepping on the soft, reassuring layers of fallen leaves.

I walk on odd days, ride a bike on even days, and go to the beach on Sundays. Plans are always good, and I’ve had many great plans.

But they’re just plans.

I still keep in touch with my soulmate, not frequently. Thinking of her moves me.

Last year, we were in Taihang, Wutai, Gulou, and Hong Kong. Now, she’s in Turkey, I live in New Zealand.

I remember the night we left Wutai and returned to Beijing, sitting on the plane waiting for the thunderstorm to pass, and writing these words: “The world is so big, if we don’t meet here, we’ll meet there. What matters is that there are people I want to meet and am willing to make arrangements to see. Not meeting is natural, but meeting is a decision. I’m reminded of the ending of the movie Robot Dreams.”

I also remember writing those notes at the Capital Airport while listening to Luo Dayou’s “Farewell at Sea.”

There are also people I want to meet but can’t. People I think of but don’t ask after. People I dream of meeting.

After all this time, most of the songs on NetEase Cloud Music aren’t available anymore, so I’ve returned to Spotify. I didn’t buy the membership, so I’m forced to listen to random playlists, but sometimes I stumble across sounds from a long time ago.

“Chasing the Light” is from 2017, when I lived near a school in Shenzhen. Every day at 5 p.m., the school’s bell would ring, and I would hear it.

That autumn and winter in Beijing, there were so many things happening, and it was the darkest period of political depression. I would stay home from morning to night, not eating or drinking, just silent. When that music played, I knew another day had passed in vain, so I’d open my review materials and look at them for no real reason.

I still remember the color of the sunset that year.

There are many such songs.

“Fairy Tale Town” was the closing music at the library in the first half of 2017.

“Zhang San’s Song” has been with me for over ten years, accompanying many moments of self-embrace. The most recent time I heard it was at an airport in Hainan, at 2 a.m.

I’ve managed to say some nonsense, said quite a lot, in fact. Am I happy? I don’t know.

Talking nonsense, like playing Sudoku, is my mental exercise.

Recently, I finished watching a show about chess, which reminded me that I used to be quite good at it in middle school, especially Chinese chess—I never lost a single round in a wheel game. But later, I forgot the rules.

At my age now, it’s more suited for me to play against myself. Maybe I’ll relearn the rules one day.

I hope I never lose the ability to talk nonsense, or to keep learning. I hope I’ll always have the courage to step outside, to keep walking, and to save myself from the depths of depression, over and over again.

Pulling weeds, occasionally I still pull a few, but for the most part, I leave them alone. It’s an annual plant, thriving in the sun and heat, and once autumn arrives, it dies.

Many of the emotions in life are like these weeds—full of life at certain times, growing more and more as you try to pull them out. Eventually, I just let them be. They have their own life cycle.

But these weeds, before dying, will quickly release thousands of seeds, waiting to sprout in the spring or summer of the next year. The weeds that don’t die, the memories that don’t fade—taking up space in my yard, in my life.

I remember this quote:

“Being accompanied by art means letting art occupy our attention, imagination, and intellect, thereby giving art life.”