Prokofiev that ended in the early summer afternoon, standing on a long room leading to a small music great tree-lined road waiting for me. He did not think of terrible, and I will be lost forever as a path in the end, which leads to a large class of tree-lined path's end, where there was the most weak, inconspicuous corner, only I know the corner One day, vagrancy is met when, I remember, but I did not know, that corner as I watch my farewell far the most security silence, the most hidden place, it printed from my memory, into everlasting sign of separation. I've been unable as a kind of life, sin and responsibility set in me. Fortune-telling in that way, I am willing to give up everything. My hand, holding a ticket to another city, I intend afar off with Prokofiev, watching a farewell, then, turn around. Where is not important, important is that we will be able to escape each other. Cool wind blowing up over the distance came the young Prokofiev, I seem to be able to clearly see the happiness on his face and flush, and the youth of the publicity, it is almost flush the floor eating a small child group of sparrows, they panic flawless to fly to the branches, and then looked under the tree a mockery of a camel man, as he began to dial my phone over and over again, over and over anxiety and unease.
I can not return. If I am guilty, my love is sin; If love is guilty, my life is sin; if my life is guilty, then I live in this world, what hope is there. Many years later I have been thinking: I live in this world is hopeless. In fact, I put in on all the body and mind have nothing to expect to complete the narrative voice, which is a cello while the low-wan voice, while a text on paper rustling fall, the two voices have a high degree of integration in the body, like a happy marriage as combined. Then I finally realized: I do not have everything in that realm where all are owned and salvation. A person, not a complete investment of love, is bound to invest in art, or other work of faith, this time, Schubert's art songs sounded all around me, it was a moment of trance, I am drunk, but also broken.
Prokofiev's great room leading to the tree-lined road anxiously waiting for me, over and over dial my phone off. I am a security lonely, and sensible, I have to wait until the time Prokofiev turned to open the phone again. It was a long afternoon, the tree of cicadas cried desperately, the volt after the sky has been falling one after another to the rain and wind also made it a hint of cool, agitation of the cicada, they know that life long, and the more so , Ming was more resounding. Listen to the voices of those who come and go, want to come to declare something, such as parting, like me, and Prokofiev's departure. About God knows how, as a tragedy that there is presented and the background, sound, sound, all the associated audio, from that moment, for in my memory are different. I see the pain up and down the Prokofiev, and then a one to smoking; my silent tears to shed for, in tears, I quietly declare over and over again: I'm sorry, I'm sorry ... ... the sun Partial the house in time, Prokofiev seems to want to understand what he stood up from the big tree, turn around, but he pulled the phone.
: "Why?"
: "I love you."
: "I love you."
: "Do not look for me."
: "I'll wait for you."
Prokofiev in tears looking at the shadow, the shadow of that terrible sadness gradually disappeared in the setting sun. Next, I clearly see their stray and wild, in a strange land, unfamiliar streets, strange city to perform live almost forget yourself, forget everything around me. And when the night is approaching, I have endless flow of tears.
Prokofiev left the city, and another city a few friends to the former Soviet Union. In those days, in addition to performing, drinking, in the Volga river watching ships that go to St. Petersburg sunset, standing on a remote and mysterious land, I am happy for quite some time later, seems to really forget that the spread in the early summer the height of summer and early autumn all my pain.
Numerous tears in the night, I open the phone, and never forget thinking has conducted many of the above dialogue. At first I did wonder, curiosity and even irresponsible too, and eventually swallowing the bitter pill to be alone. I said to myself over and over again: a good safety and lonely ah, good safety and silence, in such a long night if I can Zuohua away at any time. Listen, you listen, Schubert's art songs, many of the field guide throughout, very image, very vague, but strong. Even. Also imagine the scenes of World War II concept, cool, in thrift, evil. Red soup, the former Soviet Union. Prokofiev. I. Love autism. About my silence calm and security, that is, the fall of that year in the former Soviet Union, little by little into the habit of packing.
There are many times I cried toward the Volga River, said: "I was downright mad that I am, you are not in the world are not." I think I was with that country's land and waterways has inexplicable divide, that Many times the call of the Volga River to my only response is that of never-ending flow of voice and sound on shore flow turbulence of the agitation, than no other.
没有评论:
发表评论