Fishing is not my idea either. I'm out of ideas most of the time. Occasionally have an idea but feel that the difficulty is too high and often take the initiative to raise the white flag. Other people's ideas are good. It's someone else's anyway.
That's why I love my friends. I don't know why there are still so few people who never give up on me. They are solid and self-disciplined, azure as gems, rich but not sad, spinning planets. I was responsible for sitting on it for a while, soaking in the light of their diligence, and taking a look at the Milky Way for tens of thousands of miles.
Early morning to the foggy shore. The invisible coolness is like a wild vine, and the abundance is rampant and meaningless. We made the boat to the small island in the middle of the river, and the tip of the boat looked sharp along the way. The river surface also healed without trace. This is probably a good partner. If you look around, there are many similar islands. The yellow soil gradually disappeared in the water, and it is said that such a turbid and dirty area breeds a large number of fish. In the middle of the island is a low soil slope, called a hill.
After watching fishing for a while, I felt that it was not interesting. His girlfriend accompanies him to read a magazine with headphones plugged in. I decided to look around.
All the way up the slope, there is no road under your feet, stepping on the fragile soil golden conglomerate and cement. From a distance, although the bushes are not high, they are all two meters away when they approach, and they look ugly and powerful in this barren mountain. Some branches bear vermilion fruit, the size of mung bean, and there is no sweetness in the mouth. There were thorns on the branches and coiled spiders on the webs with dried flies and ladybugs. Cobwebs are hard to guard against, often walking, hair or ears suddenly tighten, so light that it is not a physical touch, but more like an ominous premonition that suddenly flashed in the mind. There was a broken spider silk stuck to the finger. Saw a few spiders, but it was different from the non-aggressive grey species I saw at home. The spider here has a bright yellow back, and the black lines on the back seem to be a face that has melted or is about to emerge. After staring at it for a long time, there is still a hint of coolness. The dense bushes in front of him blocked the way, and he couldn't go back, and he didn't know how far it was from the top. Like lice walking in the pubic hair, there was a different kind of warm and safe atmosphere. After walking for a while, it was probably in a sunny area, the bushes were getting thicker and the spiders were getting more and more, so I leaned forward, and then simply landed on all fours and crawled forward through the gaps in the rhizomes of the bushes. The ground was covered with soft fallen leaves, rotted and disintegrated to varying degrees. There are also ants, snails and centipedes, rustling busy. After crawling for a while, I saw a rotten shoe in front of me, and next to it was a once-glossy leather bag. Nameless, disgusted with fear, and crawled around for a while. "This is a place with no roads," I thought as I climbed, "people who have been here have buried a part of themselves here." I could feel the indifferent sunlight mottled on my back, and I look like the owner of the shoes and backpack just now eating in a revolving restaurant with a glass roof somewhere high up in the air, and the waiter is pouring red wine into a goblet. My breathing gradually became heavy and accelerated, and the previously recognizable smell of unfamiliar water vapor and soil rocks and rotting beetles was now part of the most natural smell. "As long as we stay together for a long time," I thought as I crawled forward, "there will always be numbness and adaptation, contamination, and fusion."
Suddenly climbed to the top of the mountain. The curvature of the hillside and the twigs of the branches ended without warning, as if looking up, they came to a small flat open space. In the middle of the clearing is a bare white rock, which may have been buried under water before, or it may be the breath of the wind, flat and smooth like an abdominal muscle without a navel. I sat down and listened to the surroundings, there was the sound of boats in the distance, it should be sending more fishermen to other small islands. I take off my shoes. There is fresh soil sticking on it. He took off his trousers and shirt again.
This is all my stories about the ascent and the way forward, and the general narrative should end here.
I descended the mountain on the other side and circled back to the same place. Back when he was still fishing, his girlfriend was still listening to the headphones. They said, where have you been? I said, nowhere to go.
For the next few hours, I crouched by the water not far from them, watching as the breathing water kept pushing the body of a dead fish ashore and rushing it back again and again.
The dead fish didn't look dead at all. Probably because it's still floating in the water. Its scales have a layer of rainbow colors found in shells, and it looks like cheap gasoline spilled in muddy rain. Looking at the way it has been dead, it must be as slender as spider silk. Although alive, alive looks like a hard-shelled radio. Those white tender buds still attached to the fish bones, the tiny heads that don't need to think, and the fishy blood that stops circulating, I'm afraid they still don't know that death is coming, right? Like a sweaty athlete who has crossed the finish line after a long run, like a female worker who goes to work on time and finds the iron gate closed when she arrives at the factory gate. They don't know that they have been squirming out of their hot bodies, and as waste they are about to fall into the white and cold vacuum like a toilet. After a while, when the flushing button is pressed, a vortex-like acceleration of the pouring journey begins. From the sewer to the sewage pool, the expansion and fermentation into a rich and fertile fertilizer will surely become a topic of discussion for many years later.
That's not where I'm going. But I can't stop there. The dead line I grabbed with my hand was as thick as spider silk after passing through it.
View more about The Graduate reviews
