well我还是回来了。用外国的手机号验证的话，可能安全性会好一点？反正是用过即丢的号码。当然，我应该开始考虑长远的未来了。大概率我会在异国的土地安顿下来，至少是一段时间内。说到底，我渐渐难以想象不一样的土地，因为土地就是土地而已，不过是其上占据着的人有不同而已。假设没有这么多人，整个世界上仅有我一个，那么麻烦就会少很多。每当我这么想的时候，我就要在重复一遍之前的推断，有关一个人的格局、意义、世界的尺度，等等。总之，我不能那么考虑；我是处于社会中的人，社会对我来说是很重要的。
最近我处于一个极为善感的时期。让我把这几天的东西移过来。
11.18
I am thrilled to find this band, Da Da Yue Dui. I love their songs, though they stopped composing new albums like ten years ago. Here is how I found them. 我在看“中国新声音”，有一首歌让我觉得不错，叫“有没有”，是韦什么什么写的。我去Spotify找这首歌，在搜索结果中看到了这么一首歌，“切尔西旅馆有没有8310”，是唱“南山南”那个歌手的歌。我不喜欢这首歌，但我觉得歌名很有意思，所以开始搜索其他的足球俱乐部名字。搜到“巴萨”的时候，找到了一首叫“巴巴罗萨”的歌。点进歌手主页，听了一下最popular的“南方”，觉得很不错。之后又听了几首，感觉都不错，“巴巴罗萨”也不错。目前我最喜欢“浮出水面”。
然后我就开始幻想婚礼上要放什么音乐。我是如何擦掉父母的泪水，如何朝新郎微笑。一定要放“Don't Stop Till You Get Enough"，让宾客都可以跳舞。我幻想的结婚地点就在*的草坪上，初秋时节秋高气爽，草地青青。其实我也有幻想的新郎，但不太好意思写出来。
然后现在Cleopatra这首歌正放到”When I die alone, die alone"。哦it's all very sad。Could I be loved? And be loved?
我在考虑戴戒指的时候放“You are My Life"。但歌的高潮部分的嘶吼又感觉有点不太合适。I want to be blessed by my childhood favourite tho. How time flies. 我想象中的婚纱是那种比较轻的纱裙。蓬蓬的纱裙，拖到地，但不厚重。上衣像bodysuit一样简洁贴身。自从几年前看到了某年的维密广告，就一直不能忘记里面模特的纱裙。哎。When will you appear in my life? I feel that I am growing older and older. I want to be married in daylight, blessed by golden ginkgo leaves. If I were to be married on the lawn outside my community, I'd have to cover my house's wooden floor with carpet so that guests wouldn't ruin the floor. Or maybe I'd never be able to be married. Not to someone who has my music taste. That sounds horrible.
How is it possible to be loved by the right person I want to be with? What are the odds? What if forever means never? And the fear that I have always had is that what if I am not worthy? Not worthy for love or happiness? Maybe because I am too cowardice and lazy? What if my life sucks? What if? I cannot say que sera sera to myself. I am so frightened by how time flies. How time runs away from me, slips through my fingers and my mind. How time washes me layers by layers off, pushing me further towards the dark abyss. I simply cannot stop dreaming. I simply cannot stop constructing fake worlds in my mind.
I like to be embraced. In my mind I always picture that state of being wrapped around by someone's arms. May be my mother's, my loved one's, God, whichever imaginary friend of mine. I am too sad to be alone in this.
And I was picturing my mid age crisis. What should I do to avoid that? What should I learn? How should I live? I envy my roommate for she can go to places with someone. To Mexican City. To some places.
I want to walk through the rain with some warmness remaining in my hand. My feet and hands are always so cold; I worry that they might freeze the one to hold them. No, I don't want anyone to touch my feet because that kind of disgusts me.
Maybe I am not worthy; it always frightens me. And that sweet familiar desperation seeps in my mind, dissolving my volition, luring me in its dark embrace. My mind is like water. There is nothing bluer and thicker than water.
I miss the autumn wind. I miss the white sky of Beijing in winter. I miss my lonely childhood, when loneliness was not something to bear with but to live with. When loneliness was me, and it was okay to be me. When I did not have to be scared to be alone. When my parents never die, and the world never ages.
I am tired of waiting. If that fortune-teller was right, I'd be so happy. You could do so much for me if you could. Love me. Love me. Kiss me in the sunlight, kiss me by the beach, kiss me when night falls on the ocean, when I feel blue in wavy wind, when time creeps on my face and my eyes. Kiss me in a quiet European town where flowers bloom on every balcony and window pane. Kiss me in hot summer afternoon when we walk down the brick road. Kiss me and keep my mind off the history, draw my attention away from the fallen and the dead and the death and forget to come, make me quiver from the inside, my soul resonating with some integrating power greater until I fall apart and be everywhere and be free. And be limited and shaped by you, tie me down safely by your side so that I wouldn't have to fly away, falling into the sky, landing on Jupiter or somewhere finding myself all alone, terribly emaciated, sinking into the starry bed and sink and sink and sink.
Give me honey. Open the door to the secrets of the world and life, the abundant, the luxurious, and let me take a sip that will make me immortal. Come to me when I was alone standing on the bank of the dark Michigan Lake outside of the planetarium where my class were happy with their prom music and dress. Come to me in the snowy night and chase down the deers with me, run by my side. Save me from all the time like scooping out a cupful of water from a river. Come and have breakfast and dinner with me. All the festivals would be meaningful again. If only you would come to me and see me helpless, worthless, hollow, sensitive, and still touch my passion burning with my ice. And awake me with your kiss. Then I'd be living in now, living with my heart thankful of all the time rushing by me and the people passing me by. And I will vow to block the harsh wind while I still can and love you as hard as I still can.
11.26
登上一艘船。在阳光明媚的上午，登上腓尼基人留下的小船。小小的木头船，劈开碧蓝的爱琴海，阿芙洛忒狄亮闪闪的衣裙。海水里有奇妙的宝物，四处嬉闹游动。
12.8
Play my heart like a guitar. I'll stretch my arms in the bronze sunlight, lying against the milky white brick wall. The air will amber me in old time, in a framed photograph, hanged in a dusty room. It will be a warm summer afternoon, the air is copper-yellow solitude, and the air in the room will be gray loneliness.
It keeps occurring to me. Some quiet European town with few people walking on the street in the afternoon. The air would be idle, smelling like the sun and the salty sea. Everything would be in a nostalgic darker shade; that's why the sunlight is more bronze than golden. I would pass by windows of happy families or old couples; flowers grow out, keeping the indoor cool and shadowy. And soon the weather would change with a sudden stroke of wind; clouds would billow across the sky, high and wide. It would rain with the smell of wet dust, fresh and reassuring, the smell of the promise of a clear world an hour later. When the doctor in "Love in the Time of Cholera" goes to find the woman at the beginning of the book, I picture him going out in such a rainy day. I never finished that book, but it suddenly came to me.
I don't want to die alone. I don't want to go back to a house full of memories. I want to die in a foreign place with familiar faces. I want to die on a beach, watching the clouds pouring like Hukou Waterfall. Waves will wash my flesh off; water falls, and stones reveal. White bones half buried in sand, like Ozymandias' ruins in the desert.
If I make this view beautiful enough, brew the ambience carefully enough, I may appreciate the solitude diffused in the air. Right now when I am walking down the lane in my mind, even breathing hurts. My heart aches with each pound, but I am growing addicted to that ache, because it is so familiar, and the solitude is becoming toxic and sweet. My whole torso is struck by the pain, and each cell seems to be a heart of its own, awaiting.
12.9
I like traveling. It is not actually arriving at some place that excites me, but the long waiting on the road, where the little anticipation grows under my heart, bringing the gentle aching of joy so constant that it becomes background white noise. Though of course I would expect the seating on the way be comfortable enough for me to not want to escape from it soon as possible.
I like to be on the road. Isn't it the best? The exhaustion after getting to the destination is yet to be faced, and the anxiety of being left behind at the same old place cannot catch me. I am all carefree and happy on the road. The future is settled but need not to be worried for. The existence of a promising land makes the trip necessary and meaningful.
It's great to be riding on an endless train.
12.12
夜色总不是单纯的黑色，而是蒙了霜的葡萄，在点起灯的城市上空安然无害地展现静谧的蓝色。在克里斯见证神迹的那个夜晚，在被高悬的夜色笼罩，被脚下远远城镇的灯托起的阳台上，站着死亡的天使。她染成深棕色的头发高高盘起，几缕泛着金色垂在颈后；大理石般苍白的皮肤裹在黑色天鹅绒礼裙下，光着的手臂一条弯曲地倚在身后的白色扶栏上，一条像芭蕾舞演员那般舒展地伸向克里斯。她高高站在扶栏前的石板椅上，链条状的银色耳环闪着空中星星的淡光。
那光将会融进她的血肉，模糊她的面容，使她变成光。克里斯最后远远看见她在水上行走，在雾气重重的湖面上发光。那时他记起初次看见她，默默仰着头，注视着什么更高的东西。月光洒在她前额上，将她的等待凝固。克里斯这才意识到，他曾见过死亡。她轻轻一跃，双脚便离开了堪堪接触着的石板椅，飞向虚无。
根本不知道写的是什么。最近在读Housekeeping，有点神神叨叨。