Soul Sketch

     【I】

    Inside the fence is one world; outside is another; inside is a small world; outside is a large world. The world inside cannot escape; the world outside cannot enter. The eyes go out, the senses come in; the senses go out, the eyes come in. Time goes out, and time also comes in. The sun tilts its body, reaching a space that allows for semi-privacy; the sun's body narrows, the gaps in the fence widen. The moon glances at its eyes, crossing the tropical zone; the moon comes and goes, and the fence becomes a frail, empty shell. You are the fence; you are destined for a position, and you are also destined for emptiness; you are destined for principles, and you are also destined for decay. Without promises, greed will not instantly become a Buddha; therefore, you become a shining symbol; without vows, morality will not kneel and beg for mercy; therefore, you become an eternal sculpture. Many people have squeezed in, and the church bells for evening prayers are no longer melodious; many people have tried to squeeze in, and the reverence before the lotus throne is diminished…

    [II] A wall painting

    is meant to be concealed. To conceal the unseen. To conceal the peeping eyes, to conceal the possible conspiracies that may fester, and the peach blossoms that may climb over the wall. To conceal the restless stirrings of those about to play with fire, and the joys and sorrows that should not happen. It is meant to be concealed. To conceal the blatant exposure. To conceal the prickled ears, to conceal the stories that may grow into tales passed down through generations, to conceal the impossible that is very likely, and the very likely that is unnecessary…

    [III] Vines

    need no management. No restrictions. No constraints. Management is your business; restrictions may also be your business, but constraints are not necessarily. Restraint is me: half liberated weakness, half suppressed strength, and half God's unfairness... I've never thought about the boundless scenery at the top of the mountain, or even straightened up to take a breath and sneeze happily... My antennae are also sensitive, turning around to find a distant lover, writing an indomitable diary, doing what I can, and then, as soon as possible, performing a certain death ritual...

    [4]

    There is no road in the world of consciousness. The path is the mother of the road. The first footprint is the catalyst for the path. Many roads in the world are made by many people, many paths are made by many people, and the first footprint may be followed by countless footprints, or it may be just one... If the first footprint becomes a path, then the first footprint must be God; if the first footprint becomes a road, then the first footprint must also be God; if there is no second or third footprint after the first one... then whose footprint is this?

    [5]

    A speck of dust in the universe of history? A planet beside a star. The sun shines, the ice and snow melt, the earth trembles, the river flows, the air condenses, and life is born. Creatures crawl out of the water, jump down from the trees, eat raw food, fight, reproduce, cover themselves, preserve fire, cook food, manipulate stones, survive… Knotting ropes to record events, creating writing, forming nations, establishing countries, culture and civilization, logic and science, truth, goodness, and beauty versus falsehood, ugliness, and evil, truth and falsehood arguing… Children become fathers, fathers turn into phosphorescent flames… Countless small families form a nation, countless nations occupy an earth… The arguments continue, the fights continue, the arguments continue, the fight continues… Saints and immortals, Buddhas and Gods, heroes and villains, public servants and ordinary people, independence and disintegration, the Diamond Sutra, the Quran, the Bible, monuments and pillars of shame, heaven and hell, earthquakes, tsunamis, mudslides, nuclear weapons, atomic bombs, the global village, CPUs, relativity, Tiangong-1, the presidential palace…

    [6]

    The wise man.

    Absolutely a wise man.

    Popular, folk, bel canto, ethnic, European and American, traditional, ancient, highbrow and lowbrow, highbrow and lowbrow... no, none of them. Plucked, percussion, orchestral, solo, ensemble, concerto, monophonic, dissonant, harmonic, folk, stream of consciousness, street dance, hippie... no, none of them. No applause, no curses, no cheers, no ignoring... just no. If you don't want it, you'll want it; if you don't have it, you'll have it. The five colors blind the eye, the five tones deafen the ear, the five flavors dull the palate, the galloping and hunting make the heart flutter...

    cicada—

    cicada...

    [7]

    Think back to billions of years ago, you were the nothingness of the Way of Heaven, later, you became the existence of the Way of Heaven. Later still, are you dust? Or rock? Or magma? Breath? Or trembling? Shout? Or sigh? In any case, in the end, you are grains of sand, united to form an endless beach, facing the sea, where spring is warm and flowers bloom...

    Thinking about billions of years from now, what are you? A water droplet? Or air? Or a wisp of morning mist? A drop of crystal-clear morning dew?

    In short, you are not a story, nor a legend, nor a fairy tale. You can only be an inspiration: nothingness becomes reality, the vast becomes insignificant, oscillating between disappearing and not disappearing. Tempering is only a matter of time, either instantaneous or long...

    [8]

    When the mountain ridge looks up at you, you are a lover beckoning to a sweetheart; when it looks up at you, you are a slave prostrating before a master;

    looking up at you, one does not know that you are deceiving; looking into the distance, one knows that there is still temptation. Therefore, wise people neither look up nor look into the distance. It is best to become a mountain ridge, turning silence into an instant of eternity, watching the sun, moon, and stars rise and set, and the world change...

    [9]

    If you want to never dry up, you must never stop, and always converge towards the lowest point. Your selfishness creates your wisdom; your wisdom reveals your selfishness. This is the selfishness of wisdom, the wisdom of selfishness. Humans barely understand it, and then they begin to bow and curse; curse and bow. Years later, the river has long since dried up, and both bowing and cursing are beggars.

    [10]

    Don't take applause seriously.

    It may be just to appease, or it may be just following the crowd. Even if it's not just to appease, what could it be? Even if it's not following the crowd, what could it be? —Affirmation? Affirmation of the past? Praise? Praise of the past? Eulogy? Eulogy of the past? In short, don't take it seriously. There

    can be applause. But don't take it seriously. The applause belongs to the audience, not you. After the applause, you must take your bow. So, in short, don't take it seriously.

    [11] The morning glory

    sings for life.

    It thinks that being strong is being strong. It thinks that being weak is being weak. It thinks that the expression of individuality is the spread of the soul; it thinks that the submission of forbearance is the leap of thought. Without comparison, why bother yourself with troubles? Don't compare, bow your head and lie down in the sunlight. A splendid bloom, composing a symphony. You sing softly for yourself, that is the ultimate expression of life. People pray beneath your elegant pomegranate skirt, you sing for life—the fleeting is also eternal, the simple is also magical.

    [12] A firefly,

    a single spark, struggles in the autumn night. It wants to tear apart the decay called confinement, it wants to destroy the confinement called decay. It is unaware of its own insignificance, its silent charge carries a trace of great brilliance. Thus, resistance has a reason—all efforts are moving, all battles will be recorded in history. Thus, the firefly is forged into a symbol of immortality. Thus, weakness becomes noble, and nobility becomes even more noble…