Inner Hometown

Many years ago, I cut a picture of Kawabata Yasunari from the newspaper. His mouth was drooping and his glasses were looking up obliquely. The loneliness, the silence and the silence of terror I have never seen in other writers.
Kawabata Yasunari has lived in a river of death since his childhood. He lost his father at the age of two, his mother at the age of three, and his grandmother died at the age of seven. At the age of sixteen, his only relative, his grandfather, died.
I think that a person who lives in desolation and always thinks of himself as an orphan will probably have this expression on his face.
Is that what my inner expression is like?
That vague panic is something I know best.
I was born in a small town in a remote province. I lost my father at the age of three and my mother was away from home all the year round.
I went through hunger and school dropouts, and when I was seven years old, I began to live alone and face the world by myself. For me, the world is almost a stone that hits me in the chest. It’s cold, hard and dark. I learned it very early.
I don’t trust the world, I doubt everyone.
When I was eight years old, my grandmother came to see me from the countryside town. She bought me my favorite fork burger, but I thought she put poison in it. All kinds of dark and sick ideas have been tormenting me for many years.
Faced with the reality, I am a fragile person, not to break up, not to defeat.
For such a person, writing is not a choice, but a fate.
I started keeping a diary very early.
Words are like my dead father and mother far away, and thick quilts blocking the world for me. They return to my heart from my pen and become the light in my darkness. Reality is forgotten in time, and man becomes powerful in illusion. Writers hold swords one by one, marching bravely, how many vicious enemies are sworded by their throats, and how many tender feelings have never been obtained, starting from their hearts, through words, into petals back to their shoulders.
From diary to poetry and from poetry to fiction, writing has become my way of life for more than twenty years.
Without writing, I would be depressed, depressed, anxious, restless, like a drug addict breaking down.
When I write well, I feel healthy and happy. I am willing to live to be a hundred years old. In this way, writing diluted my fears and made me see another world, which was not as dark as I had seen earlier in my life.
I came to ShenZhen from the most remote provinces.
In Beiliu County, my hometown, there is a pass for exiled prisoners in ancient times, called ghost gate gate gate. The folk saying “after the ghost gate gate, nine out of ten will not return” refers to this place. I didn’t like my hometown until I was an adult. In fact, I was more dissatisfied with my life. I grew up anxious, irritable, panicked and anxious, always looking forward to fleeing my hometown and going far away. I came from Beiliu to Nanning, from Nanning to Wuhan, and finally to ShenZhen.
Now I have lived in ShenZhen for more than ten years. Just as I can’t tell the north from the west, I can’t understand the secret of the city.
ShenZhen is a great city, but it is far away from me. City, but it’s far away from me. “Although I believe in beauty rather than my native land”, sometimes I think of the feelings of the ancient poet Wang Can when facing a magnificent pavilion.
In this way, my hometown finally came to my heart many years after I left it, but at this moment it has been totally different.
Three years ago, when I returned to the north, I saw that it had become more new and strange than seven years ago. The streets I knew had disappeared, the familiar trees had disappeared, and the vast fields had become construction sites. In particular, my mother tongue is also mixed with Mandarin and Cantonese, which makes it strange. Once Wenlian invited a restaurant to dinner. The table was full of local people, but every dish served by the lady was in Mandarin instead of local dialect. I think if I still live in my hometown today, I must be like a foreigner.
I live on the eighth floor of a high-rise building in Dongcheng. My daughter has been planting corn on the balcony since she was five years old. She has been planting corn for several years now. Because she can’t breathe in the air and has not enough sunshine, she doesn’t have heading every year, and her daughter always has a white joy.
I think half of it is like corn. It’s neither the son of the city nor the son of nature.
Fortunately, literature has taken me in, and my rootless sickness and anxiety, as well as the sense of emptiness of isolation, have been placed in literature.
I have worked in many professions, and now I am a woman who lives by writing.
The current situation is that there are more than a billion people in our country. Even if only 10,000 people buy my books, I can survive at the lowest standard of living without looking at the face of the market.
I gradually calmed down, which made me slowly see the survival of others.
I would like to see more. From May to September 2000, I traveled alone, four times in and out of ShenZhen, along the Yellow River valley, and traveled more than 20,000 miles.
I saw countless fields and mountains, countryside fairs and schools, old people and children, sheep and cattle, funeral processions and wheat on the road. Although I am not good at participating in the writing of social reality, I am sure that the concern for the underprivileged and vulnerable groups will make my heart healthier.
Writing about myself is my last ideal. On the road to carnival, I give up my literary ambition and any persistence.
I believe that the homeland of my heart will appear in my writing.
If one day I can’t write any more, let literature lurk in my body like bacteria, let them grow with me, grow with all things, or perish with all things.
I used to be so afraid of the world, but the world embraced me with literature, I can only be grateful.