Tears comfort the past as well as the future.
From a very young age, I discovered the secret of pleasure. Almost like joe in Nymphomaniac, in the process of chasing happiness, I also experienced loneliness, the kind of loneliness that is just me and the universe, like a black hole.
Unspeakable joy and uncomfortable loneliness made me a precocious and sensitive child. The first two sentences above were memorized when I read Dora's Lover for the first time when I was in fifth grade. Of course, the original words have been blurred, but the unrestrained pursuit of physical pleasure in the text is not only self-taught, but also self-taught. Innate identification.
When I was 8 years old, I was separated from my grandfather who raised me for the first time. On the way to the long-distance bus station, I remember that in the narrow alley, I kept turning back and my grandfather kept beckoning.
I remember those big hands, warm, strong and firm. One morning when it was raining heavily, my grandfather held me across the turbulent water flow on the road. The big pillar-like feet could only swirl to avoid the flow of water.
Maybe I've told people, and I haven't said it, my wish when I was a child was to marry my grandfather.
My grandfather had cancer. It happened when I was 5 years old. He left home for a long time and came back with gauze wrapped around his head. Every year since then, his head has slowly bulged up like a recurring nightmare that periodically comes to your mind. The more sensible I am, the more worry I have, and it can be said that I grew up with worry. Often wake up in the middle of the night, thinking of the possibility of death, crying and suffocating in the past. Sudden crying and sudden prayer, along with powerlessness over reality and fear of the passage of time, are all deeply ingrained in the mind.
In the third year of high school, reality developed to its most ugly and cruel moment. Half of my grandfather's head was covered with cancer cells. Surgery was no longer possible. The once tall body and solid hands and feet have disappeared, leaving only a skinny body slumped on the bed. My heart was split so violently that I could no longer feel the pain. I refused to admit that it was the person I relied on and admired most when I was young. Can two people with such contrasts really share a name?
The room where he lay was filled with rotten flesh, bad blood, urine, disinfectants, antibiotics, and the smell of stale air. The smell had no other name than death. The grandfather had disappeared when he was a child, and was replaced by a pitiful The dying monster you can't sympathize with anymore, distorted from smell, appearance, sound, he kept calling my mother's name out of pain and fear, his raspy voice scraping at him like a rusty blade The decaying vocal cords emanate, and just hearing it, has already made you extremely painful.
At this time, I was lying in the next room, and in the boring summer after the college entrance examination, I locked myself in the room across the wall and desperately read the Norwegian forest. On the one hand, I felt that I wanted to die, on the other hand, the exuberant vitality was tearing me apart. In the end, I could neither enjoy the joy nor respond to the call of the next house to survive, and I could only lie on the bed like him, locked in the room.
At that time, I too longed for physical comfort, and I remember my need was so strong, even though I had not been close to anyone.
On the morning when the death came, I went to the English class my mother had signed me up as always. At the moment of the death, the foreign teacher on the podium was giving a lecture. I remember that I closed my eyes for a while and felt relieved. When I came back, I heard the news of death. In that trance, I thought, the soul I once loved and suffered so much must have said goodbye to me. But seriously, like joe, I couldn't feel the pain at the time, I didn't feel anything. Of course, I never imagined that this spreading pain would lurking for a lifetime.
This is about happiness, sorrow, death, and the seeds of desire that were planted in my heart in my early years. Today, when I watch Nymphomaniac, these deep memories are poured out again. This movie tells my story to a certain extent. I am deeply grateful.
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