【Yilin Yiye】Nostalgia for an oak tree| essay Araga

I often think of an oak tree growing in the wilderness, this oak tree is not very tall, its brown trunk is so straight, as straight as a black pencil twisted between fingers. The leaves flooded with green light are very fine, they can let people see the past and future of a world, and the green with light is a flowing life, staying in an island, and what you see every day is a flowing life.

The first time I saw the oak tree was on an isolated island, where I had spent my best years, from where I got something I deserved, but I lost something I shouldn't have lost, and when I wrote this sentence, even I felt a little confused, but writing it like this seemed to make people walk into a borderless and colorful labyrinth, but I had no other way.

Around that isolated island, there were rows and rows of oak trees growing happily everywhere, and I didn't quite understand how they had grown into such a shape, and how they had grown up at such a crowded distance, until later, when I was the last to leave the island, I knew that there was no distance, no nostalgia.

The word nostalgia, for them, is still a complete luxury and distant look, they look up at the blue sky birds every day, every night look up at the stars and darkness, these oak trees will also open their eyes to watch the dust of time pass by their side, silent, like a breeze in summer.

At that time, I used to sit near the south window and look down at the green world outside, and the summer breeze blowing from the south window swept over my face, pasted on another wall, smashed on the hard wooden desk, and fell on the gray floor, and later I saw their figures flying over the open glass window and escaping.

In this season, the summer breeze is fragile, it is packed in a void box by summer, and it is shaken and flipped back and forth, and the summer breeze seems to fall into a huge Pandora iron box.

I kept my eyes on the somewhat barren wilderness, the summer wilderness was very lifeless, but at that time, the sky was always a little gray, the rain did not fall, they ignored everything, they liked to hang in this sky that looked like the wilderness and was a little barren. One day, though, they descended from the gray sky, and the slow fall of the summer rains brought me to a poet and his verses.

The summer rain fell intermittently for a week, and the school road was wet on all sides, and the rain flowed down in a straight line along the palm branches that grew on both sides of the school road, as long as the poet's poem, as long as the hot and rainy summer.

The poet, who seemed a little tired, had been coming to this isolated island for so long a month, and his slender, withered body walking on this small southern island, seemed to be a thin oak tree moving slowly above the field, his steps were very slow, and his slow steps were like feathers falling to the ground, and he was like an oak tree, simple in meaning.

He came here from the southern city, and in two days he left, and he said it was lined with trees, and he took his verses to a place with green life, don't you want to see it?

I said you didn't come here for a reason, just to write poetry? It's tiring to live like this, like trekking back and forth on the blade of life.

The poet looked at my face and stretched out his arm, and he grabbed a leaf it and shook it back and forth in front of my eyes. He said it was a leaf, right? Now, I lift this leaf above your head and let it fall slowly above your head, what do you think? But the leaf remained motionless in the palm of his hand, lying quietly, as if his words were drifting down, moving and swimming on the surface of my face.

I said I thought of the nihilistic life brisk landing on the ground. The somewhat unpredictable poet said that I had only guessed half of him, and in fact that half was also a later thing, and I didn't care if it happened or not, but my idea was so error-free, he said that the answer I gave was only half of the answer he gave, and I always wondered how someone like him would be different from the summer breeze.

He went on to say do you still want to guess once? Here, you have time, but I'm really going to get out of here, and you haven't guessed the part of me that, have you? I also know you can't guess it, am I wrong? You have heard it all, and I said that you are only thinking of some things now, so, that is, you only have a part of your life now, and you still don't understand these things, and there is nothing wrong with me, right?

I looked at the neat row of oak trees in the distance, I didn't know what he was going to say that I didn't understand, I didn't know how far a man like him would go, before that, this path was definitely full of thorns and nothingness, he walked on this path and saw the fallen leaves of the sky like migratory birds flying high in the haze, just as now I saw the brisk landing of nothingness, like my confused and trough conjecture, without any light.

I said let me think a little more? But when I turned around again, all I saw was his distant black figure, the slender black figure falling obliquely on the skin of the sand and rubbing against the skin of the sand, making a very low and gentle sound, he probably did not hear, but he could know that this kind of friction was so lurking and silent, even so, all he heard was the sound of some verses falling to the ground, and there were many parts, and many parts of him, and many parts of him, and many parts that I did not know.

He didn't tell me this, he hid these very secretly behind that part, and this part is related to a part of my life, and now I probably know the reason why my black hair grows on the head, because this part and that part grow in the same place, everyone has his own name, his name is only a part of him, he has his own name, he has many parts, no name, lost part, will be forgotten by others, You will become more and more nihilistic.

The summer rain soaks a hot season for a long time, and the soaking of these rains is a long filter and depth, and the rain falls on my summer seems to be particularly long.

But when my memories follow the path I once treaded back into the rainy season, I will return to my part, but when I want to put them in my pocket in a huge Pandora's iron box, I find that part has long since taken root, and it has grown into many thick mottled colors like the leaves of an oak tree.

The shadows of those oak trees also slowly faded on my trance path, and their scattered posture seemed to be the brilliant fireworks in the night sky.

In my past, I had a time with the oak tree, this time was so short and empty, but it was not known, but it was so silent and vague. Goodbye is a pain, this short, nothingness and unknown time of distant contemplation is so far away from me that there is no end in sight, goodbye, an oak tree that grows above the field, an oak tree that once grew on my island of words.