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I greeted the dawn on a desert island

I greeted the dawn on a desert island

By Lasonji LinnearPublished 4 months ago 11 min read

I greeted the dawn on a desert island. As the sun rose, a hundred thousand golden trumpets blared. The sunlight passes through the transparent air and flies through the dull blue sky. A hundred thousand candles burned in the dark sea. I heard the bells ringing between heaven and earth, and then a hundred thousand gold trumpets blared once more. I suddenly cry like rain, but my heart is singing. A long springy sword passed through my chest with a great pain. This is the best moment of my life, I stand on that threshold, from now on I will be connected to eternity. ... Knowing for sure that I had won, the burning words appeared before my eyes and thundered in my ears. It was a victory song, sonorous as music. I felt in my wet pocket and found the piece of hard metal they had given me for cutting the glass. So I carved my poem in my strong hand on the stone wall, a monument to my victory. The hard, smooth walls of this lonely island were the only examples of wind fossils. I have filled it with my poems, and deepened the writing, to make it permanent in this unknown place.

When I was a child, a cold terror often roused me from sleep, and I gazed long into the night. I don't understand why I'm dying. When I die, all feelings will cease, and I will disappear into chaos. I'm afraid of not feeling anything. I'd rather have a feeling that lasts forever. Even if it hurts.

As I grew older, I began to think hard. I know that the universe and eternity are infinite, and that I myself, like all men, am finite. I really, really don't like this comparison, and I always want to dismiss it. So I began to wonder if there was a meaning greater than human beings. Having realized that such a meaning did not exist from a human point of view, a lonely sea appeared before me. All that people do is play before they die...

After growing up in meditation, I began to love poetry. I've read a lot of poems, and some of them are really good. The good poems describe different things, and the rhythm changes, but they all have one thing in common. It had a crystal glow, as if it came from the stars... I wish I could read forever and break this lonely sea. I wish I could write such a poem. I wish I were a star: If I could shine, I would not be afraid of the dark. If I were that good, all my fears would disappear. So I began to save a little hope that if I could do it, I would overcome my lonely fate. But I had not written for a long time, and I dared not risk so great a hope. If I write something that sucks, it's all over.

When I was 17, I jumped the line in the South. In the dry season, the sky there is blue Zhanzhan, standing in the small bamboo tower to look around, the bamboo forest outside is green and slim. The clouds in the sky were white and plump, floating slowly by. I think we should give it a try.

At first it was as mysterious as first love. I wanted to avoid others and try myself. At midnight, I slipped out of bed, listened to the breath of others, and went quietly to the window, where I sat thinking in the clear moonlight. There seems to be some feeling, some vague words, I don't know what it's like to write down. In the moonlight, I wrote on a mirror with a fountain pen. The words are horribly childish. I wrote and wrote and wrote until I had painted the mirror dark blue and my fingers and palms all blue. Back in bed, I cried. It's like a worse nightmare.

Then I wrote in pain for a long time, and my book was full of bad poems and bad poems, which stimulated me to write. By the time I had filled thirty notes, I had a serious illness and came out of the hospital as weak as a cat. At noon, squat down and stand up, and everything around you turns green.

I returned to Beijing to live in a borrowed house on the street. I borrowed a lot of books in Beijing. I read a lot of literary theory, from Aristotle to Bissimov, trying to find a way to my goal from rational analysis.

I was mad poor at that time, always looking forward to finding money on the ground. I was raised by my aunt, but she died a few years ago. Work has been slow to land, and embarrassed to borrow money from classmates. I had every thought, but I couldn't steal it. I can't do it. Want to be a temporary worker, but the account procedures dragged to do not finish. All that's left is to pick up junk.

After dark, I took a broken sack and walked to the garbage station. I stood on the garbage and I couldn't bend down. It may require an upbringing, or a greater hunger. I was walking away with my empty sack when I met a girl walking by. I only knew her once, but she questioned me again and again. I couldn't make up a lie, so I had to confess.

She almost burst into tears, and insisted on visiting my place. There, I told her all about me. I was unhappy that day, so I told her I was going to give it all up. After going over what I had written, she pointed out three indisputably good poems. She said things might not be as bad as I thought. But I can't for the life of me remember how those three poems came to be. I am not yet a source, a light, so nothing can comfort me.

Then she often came to me, and I showed her everything I wrote, for she had an eye for good and bad. She is smart and beautiful. Then we put it all down and began to fall in love, kissing in the shadows of street lamps at night. After three months she wanted to go back to her hometown, so I went with her.

There is a small village on the edge of the sea. This was the commune, where she worked as a broadcaster, and placed me in the commune high school. She had three large tile-roofed houses, built on a hillside outside the village, with their backs to the sea and their sides apart from other houses, without even the walls of the courtyard, and the wind from the land blew the doors and Windows unhindered. She needed company so much that I went into the house and said I was her cousin, and it was built with our money. They don't believe me, but they don't bother us either. We were very close, but we didn't feel the need to register for marriage. I lived in the east room and often sat in the doorway at night, unable to sleep, and she often came to sit with me. We had a lot of time to talk, a lot of time to talk about me. It seemed that writing poetry was too much for me, but it was already a thing of the past. I must follow this path to the end. I must pursue this ability. I must strive for it forever. My enemy is myself, and I want it to be good enough to satisfy me. She wanted me to fight it out. What she liked was that people could do the impossible, and all her hopes rested on it. If there were no impossible things, everything would be easy.

I kept trying. I wrote a million bad poems. She wrote a few nice sentences here and there, but nothing that really satisfied her. I seem to be walking around in a poor circle that I can't get out of. I've looked for all sorts of objective and subjective reasons, but it doesn't help. She said I should take a step forward from where I was, but I couldn't move.

I did this for years. Sometimes when I go for a walk by the sea with her hand on my arm I think: "Forget it! I can count myself happy. What a wonderful companion she is. Perhaps contentment will lead to happiness." But I couldn't be quiet. My mind can't stop thinking about that long-shot goal. I often see the lonely sea. If I stop, then it is lonely, it is better to try.

Yesterday morning, the headmaster asked me to take a dozen students to catch the tide. In two batches, we went to the beach in the middle of the sea to dig oysters, which we planned to sell back to the supply and marketing society to increase the income of the school. In the afternoon, after the first students had boarded the ship, there was a strong wind, blowing from the land. By this time the tide had levelled the beach, and the waves were getting bigger and bigger, lifting all the sand on the bar. If we were thrown into the sea, the students would drown, I would drown, and go to jail. I let the students hold on to my belt and push me against the waves. I'm 5 '5 "tall, weigh 180 pounds, and if the waves don't take me away, the students will be safe.

When the boat came to pick us up, the waves were so high that they almost lifted me up, and as soon as they did we were finished. The boat, not daring to approach, lest it should run aground on the sand, went round to leeward, and I pushed the students one by one over the crest of the wave, and let them drift into the boat. The last student got a little water, and when I floated up with him, he had a dog paddle right on my chin, knocking me out for a few seconds and waking up almost full. When I came up again, the boat was far away. I called out, but they did not hear me, and I went down again with the waves. By the time we got to the waves, the boat had swung away and they must have thought I had drowned.

I struggled in the sea for a long time, and the land disappeared on the horizon. I kept sinking to the bottom of the sea, because I was too heavy to float easily. The sea is drowning me. But I came across a dinghy without a paddle, adrift in the sea. I climbed into the boat and let it drift away. I was so dizzy I threw up all over the place. After dark, the wind died down. I saw this little island in the middle of the sea and swam up.

I greeted the dawn on the desert island, and I heard the sound of the golden trumpet. On this desert island, I wrote the first poem that came out of a wellspring in my life, and I carved it in stone.

All around me was the sea, shining gold, then silver, and the sky changed from pale red to azure. There was not a ship in sight on the sea. On top of the island there is a toy - like temple of the Dragon King. Perhaps the people would not rescue me, and I would go back to the sea and try to swim back to shore by myself, but I was not afraid. I don't feel hungry. I can last a long time. I can either wait or swim. Now I'm willing to wait. So I stood on the top of the island with my hands crossed. I felt proud because I had achieved the first victory, and I had no doubt that it would follow. I did the first thing I couldn't do, and I can do it again. I like my poem because I know that it is truly beautiful and that there is an indisputable brilliance in it. I also like my own creation of myself, I am satisfied with him.

A boat appeared in the sky, a small white dot, then like a white swan. I stood at the top of the hill, took my shirt off and waved it. It was her, alone in a white lifeboat from the Naval gun school swimming pool. She waved from the boat. I went to the shore to pick her up.

She cried and hugged me, saying she had been looking for me at sea all night. People believed that I had drowned, but she did not believe that I should die. I led her to the rock and showed her my poem. She looked at it for a long time in silence. Then she asked me for the piece of hard metal to carve my name on. But I wouldn't let her. I don't need my name on it. Names don't matter to me. I don't want people to know my name, because my victory is mine.


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