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On the Exile of Gains and Losses#
On those nights in damp basements, gnawing at my nails, I always hear a hoarse laughter creeping out from the floorboards: "What have your trembling hands ever truly grasped?" Moonlight rolls across the ground like silver coins, each inscribed with the emblem of "nothingness." They say loss is a calamity, yet I see the noose on the gallows shaking with laughter—when you say "it never belonged to you," did you hear the mournful cry of the rusty nails on the cross? What has been stripped away may well be the crown of thorns bestowed by God, while the calamity you perceive is merely the narrow gate that saints must pass through.
(A candle suddenly sparks, and the shadows on the wall split in two, tearing at each other. A drunken man vomits broken hymns in the street, and I count the scabs newly formed between my ribs, suddenly realizing that pain is the most faithful receipt of existence.)
On Living on the Edge of a Knife#
"The correct footprints have long been buried by wind and snow!" The old prisoner spat blood in the land of exile, his frostbitten toes drawing infinity symbols in the snow. When we judge our past selves, do we not see the maggots writhing beneath the judgment seat, gnawing at the code? That madman reciting the Gospel at the entrance of the brothel may be the true prophet—he understands that every filthy kiss is a communion, and every bleeding lash mark is a note written in red ink by God.
(At three in the morning, the irises on the wallpaper begin to writhe. I dip my pen in vodka to write a will on the tablecloth, only to find that every letter is fleeing. As the teapot gasps its dying breath, I suddenly hear the gunshot from my twenty-third year—turns out the bullet is still sprouting in the frozen soil of Siberia.)
On Growing Up While Playing Chess with Gods and Demons#
In the moment the casino roulette stops, I see the gaps in fate's teeth. The gambler who lost his last silver coin suddenly laughs: "The dealer has two dice hidden in his sleeve!" We curse what has been taken from us, perhaps it is the ticket to hell; while what we hold tightly in our palms may be the purse used by Judas. When the ferry splits in half in the middle of the river of the dead, we realize that the coin taken by the ferryman was originally a silver coin bought for life.
(The iron bars of the asylum cut the moonlight into moldy breadcrumbs. The man in the straitjacket repeatedly mutters, "The debt is paid!" Yet his pupils clearly reflect the creditor of the next life. When the nurse's keychain jingles, we all become souls waiting to be weighed.)
On the Web of Interpersonal Relationships and Self-Bound Cocoon#
The porcelain cups clink at the tea party, creating exquisite lies, while the ladies' fans stir up miniature storms. I count the fleas on the gentleman's bowtie opposite me, suddenly understanding why the stone walls of the monastery must be built three meters thick—when we strip off our skin to exhibit our scars to each other, the nails on the cross will rust in the dark. The most perfect distance is to let each other's breaths become legends, just like saints and demons are forever separated by an open Bible.
(Spiders in the attic are gathering their webs, the sound of fluttering prey is like a distant death knell. I tear apart all the letters, only to find that every scrap of paper forms my own face. The barrels in the basement gurgle, perhaps loneliness is the vintage we dare not uncork.)
(When the morning prayer bell rings, the ink bleeds on the paper into the shape of a blood pool. From next door comes the creaking sound of a noose rubbing against the beam, and my quill suddenly has a heartbeat—this is probably what they call "being alive.")