简介
随笔
At the intersection of subways, transfers sometimes resemble a handshake, but only a touch. Crowds ferment and thicken in these junctions until they expand into a certain state. In such situations, connections between people are made through the devices in front of them; someone's NFC bounces off the person in front, and the next person taps their phone forward, forming an unending current that generates rows of people in a train car. Doors spring open, crowds exchange in exhaustion, numbers undiminished, and in such moments, the individual ceases to exist, their freedom of action often curtailed by surrounding forces, leading to individual decay. In winter, these touches accumulate, while in summer, due to exposed skin, connections are monotone and quick, sticky.
The border between subways is ordered through codes from a bygone era. Stowaways are few, for between stations there is not just a handshake but also crossings and entanglements, narrowing people's vision with noise. The front is always the front, with the sides and back ceasing to exist over time. Encountering a few researchers in the middle, their equipment trembling, indicates the loss of those ahead.
The ground is an unprecedented net, with a circular gradient, loosely arranged on top and hollow beneath. Subways communicate through the net and its cavities, a system that dates back to World War II, or even further. When the theory that children have no waist was proposed, such a net became objective. It's actually made up of protocols, trivial daily routines, souls sitting alone by the window, and the last three lines of signatures altered. The completion of these protocols is too casual, with unclear dates and hasty logic, childish gestures floating, banging on the table, ending, and whispering.
Except for the Freedom Moon.
Freedom Moon is a general term, globally unified, though some archipelagos, due to their worship of fallen planes and stranded ships, lack understanding of it. Civilized society tolerates such crude barbarism. Satellites position through Freedom Moon, enveloping barbarism, which is also an erosion, containing the entire Han Dynasty within. Wearing my neighbor's headphones, I walk to the ground, passing through some worn pale yellow, the escalator too old, reminiscent of the arrays of 1968.
The higher up, the emptier it becomes, with sails occasionally hanging. In places where the net collapses and few people are found, several reflective vests curl up inside mirror-like houses, watching the rain surge through skylights. Rain brings joy, while snow oppresses.
As one ascends, gravity increases, the subway pulling, a common discomfort mentioned in the manual, arising from the blueshift at both ends of the carriage, the air conditioning a bit too strong. Vending machine handles are all made L-shaped, a tangible lifeline. Reaching the last escalator, the L-shape points downward, releasing the hand, and a pool of Fanta rolls out, its sugar-free orange bubbles collapsing loudly. The air is tinged with a hint of orange. Semantically, the air's meaning is layered.
The wind at the station entrance is horizontal, carrying a transparent fog. Passing through it, ears pick up a bubbling echo, the security scanner slightly reverberant. Exiting the station brings a touch of sadness, a misstep on the uneven stairs causing a slight shake, reminiscent of all the paths once taken, waiting, choices, pivotal moments, like a purple sky, the ringing of bells, or a model mountain under fluorescent light. Undoubtedly, this is a discourse, exiting the station is the most basic discourse one can complete.
Looking back, the ground is a gradient net. After leaving, I organize my materials and head towards the roadside. Hui Xin Xi Street is incredibly long. In the fog of a delivery rider picking up roast duck, I see the Freedom Moon delicately touch.
Then, hearing the vast bubbling, a billion "plop" sounds fill the station entrance, suddenly feeling a bit sad. Will I one day also lean silently against a tree full of textures, reminiscing over lunch about speeches of faith deprivation?
It doesn't matter. The earth is a glassy screen. In a piracy class, the teacher taught us to render the Earth, pulling the reflective stripes to 70, slowly sweeping up an orange-red hue, which we could only glimpse sidelong. I remember dragging myself slowly across the screen, the pedestrian path emitting a peaceful blue, within which is the Freedom Moon, preventing the nets from colliding. I wish to look back once more.