Antisyn 反合成器

English / Chinese

Melancholy on afternoons when the light overflows, would continue from Sunday to next Monday.

Melancholy spans the night and lasts in the daylight. A stark sight, I start to see it all: the origin of me begins to emerge, much starker than the one I am today, chewing on the end of a word, trying to chew out an old rhyme with incomplete teeth, sometimes just playing boredom in front of the mirror, and sometimes ...... Since I embraced everything that is more boundaryless, I've lost that slight ache, as the feeling of dust on a chalkboard. I love the subtle aches in my heart as a girl, and then the illusion lost its assistance became weaker. If only I could easily immerse myself in another person in the room like you do, to have that infinite emotion for anyone, to imagine her standing right there, looking out the window in vain, always thinking whether or not to leave this room.

I sat on the mattress in the middle of the room, slowly taking my cold pills. Listening to music, I was on the verge of seeing through it: she didn't want to be the one who tormented me, and wasn't really the one who strangled me; she was never anyone. The one who didn't want any lover, who just fell into a self-mutilating ego, was me.

And then sometimes, in the dark brown of the fall, there was a faint flood of staleness. The world, temporally rather than spatially, presses out its shape in my head, and you slow the rap down as when emphasizing slowness to me in the old town, in this painfully gentle melody that I had always regarded as your death song. I did not expect that you would stay alive year after year being in the midst of such purple days, but you were still there for me, and giving me everything. I slow down my speed of typing at this moment for I feel grateful and happy. Yesterday, when I was telling someone how to keep writing, I didn't actually want to keep writing, but now it shakes the part of my thinking, like the rippling surface of the lake.

Comfortably, in the world you've given me. Until the next imagery begins to appear: this time the foggy night of London. At a certain point, I accidentally blood-stained time. The blood appeared naturally, just an inadvertent nighttime injury, the size of the wound was occasionally staggering; the effects of the chemicals in my brain began to manifest, I felt your total rationality, eschewing my weaknesses. I knew strength itself as I was walking beside you, only until I looked at the side of your face being gilded by street light, and suddenly recalled the feeling of being in the human world, which softly hides behind our logos to stay protected. Comradeship is rational, but that thread is quietly twisted at some refracted node that you have not noticed, the origin of the error since comradeship was turned into love, you get the right to ignore the rest of the people, and don't care about anything anymore. Soon, you lose it all and feel the hatred people have for you. Love becomes slavery, and I laugh at these words with a known self-revenge, laugh at the fact that you will lose your friendship, but this state of love wouldn’t stay longer either, like how I went through it before; and then maybe you will stop this emotion in front of losing your life. Stop in the posture of being killed, at that time, you vilely come to your senses in the end, and realize that staying in that position is what you really want.

Stop flirting and talk about something true: about being a mother. Last night I worried about you. After years, you didn’t seem to forget about anything, a sign of sick nostalgia. I know I don’t deserve that much weight of memory in you, and I know you loved me for the experience of psychedelic illusion. I reached out my hand, tried to stroke the ends of your hair. But the gesture stopped in mid-air. You look more and more like an evil and pitiful toddler, an ill kid. We didn't know what to say to each other, and I could feel - no obsession was growing, but my heart was still quietly fluttering like watercress. You looked smaller, blonde hair tangled, asking me for nothing but cigarettes, another huge drug addict. I wondered what you wanted so seriously, and then, again, did you get what you wanted?

Your heart was still protected well, like a block of crystal.

Tracing back to a few years ago when we knew each other, I was gambling with something that I didn’t know at the end of winter, maybe it was the devil. When you are gambling with the devil, you should make the biggest bets, that’s what I read from the books. But I come to realize now that the only real bets are the friends around you, I actually, have nothing else. And it's so easy to completely crush and exhaust someone who has feelings for you, a soft heart. Here and now I am so afraid of myself, and warn you how evil the deal is. Even if at that time I perceived myself as the sacrifice, it doesn't mean I could harm one more innocent… and the sadness that spins in your hand is already a murder weapon… stop this careless mess.

I must stop writing these meaningless general instructions from the universe.

Imagination began a slow descent into stagnation and despair began to overtake my body. Over and over,  I go back to those times when I felt soft, the joy of being with everyone, the experience of being willing to exist somewhere for them. Feeling immersed in love without having to fall into hyper-rationalization about everything, or an ineffective nostalgia that dulls love into obsession. Trying to find that “pure pursuit in the heart that exists without relying on the attachment to anyone”, which perhaps is life itself. I observe the trees, always swaying extremely slowly in the wind, and everything is nourished in the same way by turns, being given and taken back, then the soul is born from it. Being suppressed for a short period of time is probably benefiting the education, and only until the spring when it is given a chance to revive again. Gradually, I came to understand that loss is no punishment, that it will stay unchanged even if the object is changed. The education of nature is counted by seasonal times, unshakable like a simple melody. In the entity of nature, I learned about loss and love, about waiting and balance, and grew to understand the language of people: alchemy, the Bible, and so forth. I drink the milk of nature.

In the next moment, faltering into modernity, stepping over soft nature, the symptom of my illness is this unstable mix of brain. Before futurism, modernity comes first, humanism in the midst of modernity, and so you transition! Transition into this moment: ready to [feel] being crushed by the giant machine, but in the next second, your machine malfunctions with a crippling sound of electricity and sparks, so even the perfection that you were ready to worship crumbles all of a sudden. But there is still a need to live with this imperfect but somehow functional machine, to remember what it was like to live with the smell of gasoline or the stifling heat in a steel factory, what it was like to live as a human being in that situation, what it was like to use a communal bathhouse with all other workers; figures of their bodies begin to become blurry in the steam, first, they appear in your field of vision, then it begins to get progressively more stifling here, and the presence of their bodies begins to fade away. In the feeling of deconstruction you catch up with the end of the old daily routine, the source of your family's living funds, amidst the seemingly never-ending gigantic machines in the factory, amidst the dangerous accidents that occasionally occur, amidst the death of the workers, and stopping yourself from enjoying it all like a scavenging beast, but cannot help reflecting on the fact that perhaps this is what modernity really is. Maybe all this imperfect messiness, everything that is causing your pain, is a part of modernity: it was never a concept. (And then you grow up, being able to navigate the malfunctions.) But the future gradually shows its coattails now too, the future, because it never exists in any known field but grows from the present, itself represents a vision and an order that transcends here and now in the edge of our vision - an order that can be trusted to be unchanging. In the midst of that superhumanness about speed and production, close your eyes and experience strength and hope… society! It's always about society, feeling abundantly empowered by the anticipation of a vision of the whole community. The future is about time. Being about time means existing beyond time.

    I see geometry. Geometry is peace, as harmony, always perfectly fitting on any lost puzzle piece. A kind of complement: adjusting disorder into order. I move with the planet. But honestly, I already feel like all my love is used up. I can turn eternally in the orbit, as the planets, and anticipate myself to, but have lost the power of… blood. If communists could also be mathematicians ...... But I can't fool myself… I lost the bet and lost what mattered ... No jump out of that endless subjective grief! I am destined to plunge into everything beyond pure rationality. Meet you in the future, just in the middle of a void, but still with the greatest possibilities. I used to think that place only existed in the seed and in Genesis.

  光明流溢的下午，忧郁，从周日会一直持续到周一，

    跨越了黑夜、在日光中持续下去的忧郁。鲜明的景象，我看到那一切；我的源头开始出现，但已经比我如今鲜明得多。嚼着一个字的末尾，试图用不完整的牙齿嚼出一种老旧的韵味，有时只是在镜子面前无聊地玩着，有时则......自从我接受到更无界限的一切，我失去了如黑板上粉尘感觉的那种轻微痛楚。我喜欢作为一个女孩子感受心里酸楚的细微感情，后来失去辅助的幻觉变得不再强势。若是我也可以轻易地沉浸于房间里的另一个人就好了，能从任何人身上感受到那无限的情感，想象她就站在那里，徒然地看向窗外，总衡量着是否要离开这里。

    我坐在屋中间的床垫之上，慢慢地吃着感冒药。听着歌，我已经快要看穿：她根本不想做那个折磨我的人，也并不是那个掐了我脖子的人，她谁也不曾是。那个不想要任何情人，只是沦陷进了自虐性的自我的人，是我。

    再有时，在秋天的暗棕色里，也暗暗泛出陈旧的气息。世界，时间性地而非空间性地，在我脑中压出形状，你将说唱的速度放慢就像在古城对我强调缓慢之时，在极其温柔的旋律里，我曾一直将这首歌作为你的死亡歌曲，没想到这么难熬的紫日里，你竟然也年复一年地留了下来，而且还在我身边，而且还在给我一切。我必须说，我很感激，这一刻连打字的速度都慢下来，因为我感到幸福。在我昨天跟人说怎样才能一直写下去时，其实并不想一直写下去，现在却如同摇晃的水面一般晃动我思考的部分。

    舒适，在你给我的世界中。直到下一份想象开始出现：这次是雾气缭绕的夜晚伦敦。在某一个瞬间不小心在时间中沾上了血迹。血出现得很自然，只是不经意地在夜间受伤，伤口的大小偶尔惊人；脑中化学物的作用开始显现，感受着你全然的理性、摒弃任何软弱。我在你身边行走时不得不知道力量本身，直到我看你一眼，想起人性世界的全部部分，其藏在我们的理性之后被保护。战友情谊是理性的，但那条线在某个你未曾察觉的折射节点处悄然扭曲，就是我回忆起的错误的原点。自从战友被变成爱人，你得到不认真对待其余任何人的权利，你什么都不在乎了，很快你失去所有，感受到人们对你的仇恨。爱变成奴役，我带着已知的自我报复笑这些文字，笑你会失去友情，直到像我一样失去爱情，然后也许在失去生命之前停止。停止在被杀的姿势，也许那个时候你卑鄙地在末尾中清醒过来，发现保持这种姿势就是你真正想要的。

    不拿你调侃说点真的，关于作为母亲。我担心你，我曾伸出手试图抚摸你的发尾，那姿势停在半空中。你看起来越来越像一个邪恶可怜的幼童。我们对着彼此不知道该说什么，我能感觉到，不是执念的生长，而是我的心如同水草一样还悄悄地飘动。你看起来变小了，金发纠结，问我要的只会有烟，又一个巨大的瘾君子，我想知道你是想要什么想要得那么认真，然后呢，你又得到了吗？

    你的心被保护得好好的，如同一颗水晶。

    我回想数年之前，与不知什么在赌。或许是与魔鬼，而与魔鬼赌博只能下最大的注。但真正的赌注其实只有身边的朋友，击溃和彻底用尽一个对你有感情的人是如此轻易，警告这种邪恶。即使你身处被杀的悲伤之中，也不代表可以杀人；而你手持自旋的悲伤，就是凶器一种。停止那种毫不在意的乱来。

    我必须要停止写这些无意义的宇宙总体指示。

    想象力开始缓慢地陷入停滞，绝望开始覆身。我一遍又一遍回溯我感觉柔软的那些时候，跟大家在一起时的欢愉，愿意为他们存在某一处的体会。感觉沉浸在爱里，而不用掉落到超理性的一切中，或者是一种无效的怀旧，使爱黯淡到变成执着。想着要找那心中”不依附于其他人而存在的追求“，也许是生命本身。总是看着树在风中的整体极其缓慢地摇摆，万物被如此轮流滋养，被给予和收回，灵魂也从其中诞生。被短时间压抑的或许是为了教育，直到春天时再被给予复苏的机会。我渐渐明白了失去也不是惩罚，它将不因客体更改，自然的教育按时节计算，不可撼动如简单的旋律。在其中我学会了关于失去和关于爱的事物，学会了等待和平衡，也渐渐明白了大家的语言，炼金术、圣经，等等等等。吸吮自然的乳汁。

    下一刻动摇到现代性之中，踩踏过柔软的自然，我的病状就是这种不稳定的混合大脑。在未来之前首先是现代性，现代性之中的人性，于是你过渡！过渡到这一刻，准备好【感受】被更大的机器碾压，但你的机器下一秒出现故障，发出一阵残缺的电光花火之声，连你预备好要崇拜的完美性也骤然消解。但是依旧需要依存着这不完美却有一些功用的机器生存，记起活在汽油的气味或钢厂的闷热、活在那种情况下作为一个人是什么感觉，跟其他人一起使用公共澡堂是什么感觉；水蒸气里其他人的身体开始变得模糊，首先他们出现在你的视野里，然后开始渐渐变得闷热，而他们身体的存在开始消失。在消解的感受中你追上了日常的末尾、家庭生活资金的来源，在厂里貌似永不停歇的巨大机器之间，时有发生的危险事故之中，死亡与工人之间，阻止自己像食腐兽一样享用这一切，但是不禁反思也许这就是现代性真实的意义。也许所有这些不完美的混乱性、致使你痛苦的一切都属于现代性的一部分：这从来不是一种概念。（然后你长到能够驾驭故障）但是未来也逐渐显示出它的衣角，未来，由于永远不存在于任何已知却从当下延续，它本身代表一种视野，一种在视野范围内超然了此时此刻的秩序——可相信不变的秩序，在那种超人类的生产和速度之中，已经闭上眼体会力量和希望——社会！总是与社会有关，因为期待了全社会的愿景而感受到充沛的力量。未来就是关于时间。关于时间即是超越时间。

    我看到几何。几何是平静，如同谐音，永远契合上迷失的任何拼图。一种补充：将无序调整为有序，我随着星球运转。可是说实话已经感觉耗尽了一辈子的爱。我可以如同行星一样在轨道上永恒转动，也期望如此，但是已然失去了血的力量。如果共产主义者也可以是数学家......但我不能骗过自己——我输了赌而失去了重要的东西......跳出那无止境的主观悲伤吧！我注定要投入到超越纯粹理性的一切中去。就与你在未来相见，只是在一片虚空之中，却有着最大的可能性。以前我以为那片地方仅在源头和创世之初。