鎏钺

Eventually I get back to this city, speak with the tones of men and angles, and forget her own dialect, I am nothing. Where I was born I don’t call her motherland, whose dialect I don’t regard as mother-tone. Thus under no circumstances will I write about her in her unique language; only by drifting apart from her can I feel closer to her. This city — note the preposition “THIS”, for she never becomes MY city — is composed of outlanders, where they prosper and wander; for us, she is a city of mirrors, or to say, the city of mirages, so remote yet so imminent, left for us to retreat. 

Never any end to retreats. 

So I said to my mother at a very early age — if more precisely, at the age of eight, I said to her — I’ll leave this city sooner or later, I’ll loaf around the entire planet earth, or even the universe, depending on the aerospace technology at that time, because this city is merely left for me to cry for, left for me to retrospect when I’m senile and doddering, the only mission uncompleted being death. Then those who flush into this city become my outlanders, me being incarnated in others’ stranger. In the city of uterus one is born, only two incidents occur: the birth of misery, and the miscarriage of misery. Neatness preserved for tourists, filth expressly designed for her residents.  After all, gone is the dazzling surface, yet failure and tears faileth never. The uterus you cling to disappoints you always, hence stow away into another abandoned uterus, thereupon sprout. Mother said eventually you will get bored of roaming. Eventually I’ll get back to this city; eventually  I’ll forget her dialect; eventually I’ll have nothing. 

I was just joking. 

Here’s the real thing: I hadn’t been experiencing any miseries. I long knew I had the asset to pour bitter water on her, who was so rich and magnanimous, didn’t even bother to look me in the eye. Yet only I can describe her as failure that faileth never, not for I don’t care about my karma, but for I’m born in this specific uterus. 

I hadn’t tasted bitterness, I have. One day I may dig out all the antiquated memories, with a conclusion that misery has gone, nevertheless, misery never exists in memories. Right now, right here, misery survives. But at that time I’ll interpret these written words. At present I’m far away from this city, finding all my prophecies fulfilled. Today I would tell everyone that this city does bustle and flourish, but all my fellow citizens have a tacit understanding that in this city, failure never faileth; but this is the base line of our doctrine, hidden deep under the tones of men and angles. We all suffered, we all just perceived. 

Back in June, when I was perceiving the first wave of my eternal failure, I idled around the neighborhood. 10p.m, and my mother called; where were you, said she. I said, on the way of commit suicide. Good, before that go home and pack your luggage, cause we’ll leave tomorrow. Fine, then I’d leave, not because this city deported me, but that she hurt me too deep to recover; I didn’t think I’d ever be happy again. But you would, mother said, for it didn't kill you. She was suffering too, both my mother and this city. Eventually you’d be happy again, though not so as you were before, as you had tasted failure. Next time you laugh, remind yourself that you are a winner no more; and each time you laugh, every piece of misery accumulates, till there’s too much of it, so that the failure of this city and yours fuse together. When that is heartbreaking is come, then that what is the city’s is yours, then it’s your city, then since failure never faileth, you become immortal for the time being.