Chapter 115 We are in the same place with the sun, moon and stars

Chapter 115 We are in the same place with the sun, moon and stars

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…

Anyway, I don't know how to understand it.

The two endpoints of human life are cut off and fall to the ground, turning into dirty red lines.

Life born from flesh and blood will eventually be buried in the soil.

The soil approached gently, wrapping the frozen blood, the grieving spine, the tired skin, and the indifferent head.

I clearly left it where it was, but in every inch of coverage, I could sense a dull pain that something was moving away.

Looking up, the night stars are shining, and the city dies under the starlight.

I laughed.

"You lose."

The soil cannot speak, and neither can its wife and daughter. I sit opposite the soil and have many things I want to say in rebuttal, but in the end I can only open and close my mouth to myself.

I said:

"The old man who watched the sea did not wait for his wife to die, but waited for a tsunami."

"In places where the protectors cannot protect, the protected fall into despair."

"The woman desperately gave birth to the child, cooked the blood and flesh with her own hands, and ate it while crying."

"I remember that the New God Church didn't have a god, and I couldn't understand what they believed in. Later I found out that they themselves didn't know either."

…

Finally, I asked:

"Where should I go next?"

No one answered.

I don’t have the answer in my own heart.

…

I investigated the cause of his death.

Robberies have been rampant in the past decade, especially those carried out by roaming soldiers, who have plundered as ruthlessly as locusts.

It is not just robbery, but a more cruel method similar to coercion.

Everything the victim cares about is a tool for the murderer to squeeze wealth, whether dead or alive, human or dead.

The moment he heard the mechanical sounds on the street, the old writer found the best way to preserve everything based on his life experience over the past few decades, with the worst expectations.

Kill the only person who would be threatened in advance - yourself.

No one would destroy an empty house for no reason, especially since his house was already quite old.

He didn't know that this group of people were the resistance forces sent by the kid to patrol, and the kid didn't know how his casual order could push things in the opposite direction.

In my eyes, this is a tragedy that is just right.

On the day one person died, somewhere far away, another person related to me raised a gun to himself.

A gunshot rang out and no one survived.

…

As I turned the pages with my fingertips, the folded corners of the paper rubbed against my fingertips, causing a slight itch.

The notebook was filled with stories of the dead.

This is not the human world, it is hell.

Following the travel map the writer gave me, they attended weddings of newlyweds twenty years ago, ate tea and meals prepared by the elderly, listened to the mighty military songs of the resistance army, and fell asleep on the grasslands in early spring.

Twenty years later, they are disabled or dead, lovers kill each other for love, the old man sinks to the bottom of the sea, the resistance army becomes silent, and above the large number of dead bodies, there is an exceptionally clear sky without light pollution.

There is no beauty, only dead silence.

In a world without light, I don’t know why I should live.

I'm at my wit's end.

I just sat there in silence, quietly sorting out the funeral arrangements for an old friend whom I hadn't seen for many years.

Books are stacked, sealed, vacuumed, and buried in the soil layer by layer.

The old writer said he wanted to be a writer, but it was not until then that I realized that he had only written one book in his entire life.

He condensed 40 years of time into a few short sentences and stretched the dates into a long piece.

I saw the day he rescued me, and he said:

"I found the kid in the alley."

"Look at his eyes, it's as if the whole world has given up on him."

"That's a harsh cut. Doesn't it hurt him?"

I lived in his home on and off for two months, and every day for those two months, he would mention my name as if he was observing an unknown animal.

Then they quarreled and said goodbye.

He wrote:

"It's harder than you think to communicate with others."

"It's a good thing Xiaoye left with you, otherwise I would have become a terrible father when he grew up this big."

In the following years, there were only a few words in daily life, occasionally mentioning my name, and just writing:

"In the third year, did the kid let me go?"

On the last page, as if anticipating the end of time, he left me his last words:

"Meeting an era destined for misfortune, you, who are incapable of loving others, have not committed any unforgivable mistakes."

"People are like rootless duckweed, drifting with the current without knowing where to go, swaying and drifting meaninglessly."

"If I could come across a story worth telling, meet someone worth looking forward to, if I had the strength to keep waiting, if I still wanted to live."

"This kind of life isn't a complete waste, right?"

"Waiting for death, waiting for the meeting of my wife and daughter. If I die, I will be happy too, right?"

"I died under the stars. No matter where you are, no matter whether you or I are alive or dead, we have all been bathed in the same starlight."

"Can you see that?"

…

A happy death?

Lying beside the grave, no one stopped me this time, the courtyard was quiet, the sky was dark because of the truce.

When will death be happiness?

I don’t know what the future holds, but at least at this moment, I suddenly feel tired.

Half asleep, I saw the stars twinkling. When I opened my eyes, it was gray morning again.

Gray houses, gray walls, gray sky, and a few dark green trees.

Death and ashes, smoke and dust.

After going around in circles, it seems like we're back to square one.

Not counting the origin.

I saw my notes, dropped beside the grave.

…

I rarely look back on my past.

Joy, anger, sorrow and happiness are nothing but a cloud of smoke, and only quantified results can make me feel at ease.

In the morning light, I turn over my meaningless past.

In the earliest pages, there is a fallen leaf that can only be found in cold regions.

My wife, who is in love but suffers from love, gave it to me, and she wishes me happiness and peace.

A few pages later, on the wet pages, were several receipts for boat rentals.

Then I realized that the child had also been naughty, and he was carefully hiding it in the past, as if preparing a common gift.

The young man left behind a beautiful handwriting, which read:

"You like blue flowers. I'll put it here to see when you'll notice it."

However, three days later, the boy drew a crying face under the diary: "No reaction...!"

Before leaving, he secretly wrote a line of childish words:

"When I succeed, I want you to be my commander."

"If it didn't work, just pretend I didn't say anything! If you see it, don't laugh at me."

"Don't feel sorry for me either."

When I met the officer in Central City, I received a leaflet and put it in a book.

Now I find that it is an Oasis advertisement: "Awe."

I felt like laughing, so I actually laughed.

I'm not very happy, I just want to laugh.

I thought, it turns out that at times like this, I can also laugh.

I buried the writer's book, and my notes.

Seal, pack, bury.

The gravel glows brightly in the sunlight, and being flattened by the palm of your hand seems to bury a period of time.

I lit a fire, threw in my luggage, held the map, and watched it being consumed by the flames bit by bit.

When I looked up, it was night again.

I will start again when the stars are at their best.

…

It has been so long that I have lost track of time.

I also forgot the old writer's name.

I no longer remember the red-haired child’s name, the officer’s name, or anyone’s name.

I don't even remember my own name anymore.

Perhaps it is because there is no need to remember seriously those who are dead or about to die.

People's images are abstracted into blocks of color, and their memories are buried by their own hands. In the wandering without knowing the destination, even they themselves don't know where they are.

With a backpack, paper, pen, and weapons, I walk under the sun, moon, and stars, without purpose or meaning.

My life is too long. Maybe I have met a few people, or maybe I have not met anyone.

Where are you going? What kind of goals do I want to accomplish and what shape will my life take?

I no longer think about it.

After the red-haired boy died, I still kept my promise to him and tried not to kill anyone anymore. Although I was in life-and-death crisis when saving people, the death I longed for was always a step away from me.

But is it really because of the promise?

The so-called obsession, commitment, and the behavior of persisting for some unknown reason may be my expectation itself, but I am forced to comply with it in other ways.

I later realized that I didn't kill people because I was tired of violence.

I later realized that the reason I didn’t die was because I was still looking forward to it.

What else should I know? What else do I have to learn? Who else can teach me something?

Wandering meaninglessly, staggering on the ground, waiting, expecting.

The speech becomes awkward, the expression becomes dull, and the ghostwritten letters are exchanged for useless banknotes, lighting a fire and burning power and money.

Governments are burning, religions are burning, rebels are burning, and the world is burning.

Before everything burns out, pack your bags and pick a direction at random.

forward.

How will I live my life?

Continue to meet, continue to separate, continue to numbly face the heavy rain or blizzard?

Later, I even forgot why I wrote it.

Just like a writer, he writes a meaningless life into a meaningless book.

Turn life into words, turn friends into words, turn time into words.

So, writing, walking, with eyes open, looking at the sky.

The world became empty, the wanted warrants and honors I once had turned into mud on the ground, no one recognized me anymore, and gradually I could no longer meet humans.

A certain premonition urged me on, and I thought that I was finally about to face the end of the world under the stars.

So I stopped and sorted out my past life, from the beginning to the end.

I think my life is useless and meaningless.

What is written down is destined to be read by no one, and may sink into the endless darkness along with the whole world.

Okay.

This is "Nothing Meaning".

Because my life is meaningless, it is not a life.

This is just the final touch to meaningless literature.

——Excerpt from the final chapter of Meaningless Literature

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