Sheet Metal Worker in a Dream

Don't say that dreams are merely dreams, gone with the wind — in fact, dreams are continuous.

Waking in fright from a dream, I remember that one respectable person, and only a cold wrench. I struggle to recall, like a mirage in fog — when the mist disperses I cannot grasp anything, only a few fragments remain. In the blurred impression, I went to see someone carrying that wrench on my back. Everyone was sad to the point of weeping, and I returned to the real world still sobbing.

One person walked away silently, and a group of people grieved over the small wrench he left behind. In the darkness of night I racked my brain and could not think — where exactly is a person's value reflected? Why do we dedicate? Is it, as Zhao Gang said in "Drawing Sword", for freedom and dignity?

And what are freedom and dignity?

Flying nine thousand miles through the clouds, taking in the whole of China below — what freedom could be greater?

Facing the enemy's executioner raising a gleaming blade, meeting death calmly without changing color — what dignity could be greater?

It is true that scholars think too much. From thought comes sorrow, from sorrow comes worry for country, people, heaven and earth, until like the man of Qi who worried the sky would fall, they dig to the root of life and death and persist in this till old age. Bird-fragile feelings cannot withstand the killing of reality — they scatter like smoke and gossamer threads.

In fact, life is no different from an encyclopedia — the theme differs, and so does the content. In this society, we are both readers and a book read by others, playing out our stories in the author's joys and sorrows. Tell me, is our story already conceived, or improvised? Is it a short story or merely an epigraph to a chapter?

Some lives are narration, some are expression of feeling, some are description, some are asides. In this great work that gathers heaven and earth, who can be called the author, who can be the reader, who lays it out, and who proofreads?

We are born playing different roles, like a train on a fixed track, or water flowing down a river channel, always riding a current, unknowingly pursuing our own endless forward course. A person is as small as a drop of water, as large as a sea — what kind of force makes them depend on each other yet each draw a boundary? Human sounds are made for the exhausted strings and bamboo; earthly sounds are the harmony of heaven and earth — but what are heavenly sounds? Is it the mysterious hands that bring two people close, or the unforgettable sound of deep affection?

Like a meadow in early spring — at a distance the eye sees fresh green, but up close it is all yellow decay. Looking carefully from afar, then approaching for a close look, you cannot find it. Just as you are about to give up, it pokes its head out to display its presence. Perhaps this is the Way — close at hand yet far on the horizon, uncatchable, untouchable, yet unavoidably entangled, a meaning beyond the strings.

Tell me, what kind of person counts as a good person? Is the good person in a bad person's eyes the same as the good person in a good person's eyes? Is a good person someone who does good deeds all their life? Who can do good deeds all their life? If they do one bad thing, can they be called a bad person?

Everyone has their own standard — is there an intersection that everyone would call good? If there is, those within it should be absolutely good people; if not, there is no truly good person in this world.

Sigh, people — ever-changing, unfathomable. Poking needle tip against needle tip is of course extremely difficult; better to be a wooden board and let them perform.