深夜小思

“少年不识愁滋味，爱上层楼。爱上层楼，为赋新词强说愁，而今识得愁滋味，欲说还休。欲说还休，却道天凉好个秋”。不管时代如何飞速跃迁，人内心的感受却还是亘古不变，少年时激越，行大于思，犹如大江大河之源头，汹涌澎湃，激流勇进，但也因速度太快而不顾一切想将沿途所有的都带走，欲将其全纳入自己的节奏，于是泥沙俱下，浑浊不堪。中年时沉淀，思大于行，犹如河之中游，已不在乎什么百尺竿头更进一步，徐缓而坚定地前行，只带走适合自己的东西，而将其他的放手只融于记忆中沉淀珍藏。

记得少年读书时，最不愿意学的就是古诗词和写作，觉得诗词离自己太远，而写作太浪费时间。可慢慢的到了四十岁的年纪，在经历的太多的人和事后，觉得在现实世界中能陪伴自己的也只有自己了，如何能为自己找到慰藉，何处才是内心的精神家园，不曾想到年轻时最为不屑的古人，穿越时光，将我内心点亮。我们只不过在一遍遍重复着古人做过的事，快乐着他们的快乐，也悲伤着他们的悲伤。

于是我重新拿起了书，开始阅读，读的多了，心里满了，就又重新开始写作，记录下当时的事，感想，心情。写作不同于倾诉表达，它是与自己心灵的对话，是对自己所行，所思，所想的总结，是洗尽铅华后岁月珍藏。写作让我的生活变慢了，但生活便是要如此嘛，太追求意义了就没有了意思，科技的进步让知识快速更迭，你拥有的一切技能都会最终一文不值，但唯有记录中的岁月历久弥新，经久不衰。而全人类的记录便成了文明，无论是文字，声音和影像，这些才是最珍贵的东西，就如刘慈欣的三体中人类在面临二向箔对整个太阳系的降维打击中，唯一做的就是将人类文明刻在石头上送到冥王星。

但写作也常常等同于孤独，因为任何其他元素的介入都将打破与内心对话的桥梁。所以，真正的写作都是深刻且带着沉重的，因为无人想取悦，无事想迎合，纵然有些逻辑混乱，狂放疯癫那又如何。只身独处，谓之孤，自成世界，谓之独。平凡的我们注定孤独一生，唯有写作相伴。

2023年6月17日写于多伦多夏夜

The young know not the taste of sorrow, falling in love with the upper floor. Falling in love with the upper floor, they forcefully speak of sorrow with new words. Now that they know the taste of sorrow, they desire to speak, yet remain silent. Desiring to speak, yet remaining silent, they remark, "How cool is the autumn sky."

Regardless of how rapidly the times change, the inner feelings of people remain timeless. In youth, passion surpasses thought, like the source of mighty rivers, surging and tumultuous, bravely rushing forward. But due to the excessive speed, they disregard everything and desire to take everything along the way, wanting to incorporate it all into their own rhythm. Consequently, the sediment and turbidity become unbearable. In middle age, there is reflection, and thought surpasses action, like a person navigating through a river. They no longer care about taking a step further at the top of a hundred-foot pole. They move forward slowly and steadfastly, only taking what suits them, and letting go of the rest to settle and be cherished in their memories.

I remember when I was young, the least desired subjects to study were ancient poetry and writing. I felt that poetry was too distant from me, and writing was a waste of time. However, as I gradually reached the age of forty and experienced numerous encounters with people and events, I realized that in the real world, the only one who can truly accompany me is myself. How can I find solace for myself? Where is the sanctuary within my heart? I never expected that the ancient figures whom I once looked down upon would illuminate my inner world as I traveled through time. In reality, we are merely repeating what the ancients have done, experiencing their joys and sorrows. We find happiness in their happiness and also grieve in their sorrows.

So I picked up books again and started reading. The more I read, the more fulfilled I felt. This led me to resume writing, capturing the moments, reflections, and emotions of that time. Writing is different from simply expressing oneself; it is a dialogue with one's own soul, a summary of one's actions, thoughts, and desires, a collection of memories stripped of superficiality. Writing has slowed down my life, but that's how life should be, right? If we chase after meaning too much, we lose the essence. Technological advancements make knowledge swiftly replaceable, rendering all the skills you possess ultimately worthless. However, the passage of time remains fresh and enduring within recorded words. The collective records of humanity form civilization—be it in writing, sound, or imagery—these are the most precious things. Just as in Liu Cixin's The Three-Body Problem, when facing the dimensional strike on the entire solar system, humanity's only action was to inscribe its civilization on stones and send them to Pluto.

However, writing often equates to solitude, as any external element disrupts the bridge of inner dialogue. Therefore, true writing is profound and carries a weight because it seeks no one's approval, aims to please no one, even if its logic may be chaotic or its expression wild and frenzied. To be alone, called loneliness; to create one's own world, called uniqueness. We ordinary individuals are destined for a solitary life, accompanied only by writing.

Written on a summer night in Toronto, June 17, 2023.