我看到躺在病床上的你，手腳續漸縮小，皮膚枯竭，然後一小塊一小塊地脫落。好像植物般漸漸萎縮、枯乾。氧氣罩內一深一淺的霧氣，每一下的呼吸都既深且長。瞇成一線的眼睛，眼角滲著睙水。你用僅餘的力氣，像在打摩斯密碼般的握著我的手。然後我看到你躺在病床上的軀體。雙眼緊閉，口卻張得很大，彷彿在渴求著生命的最後一口空氣。我凝視著你的臉龐，好像看到你還在輕輕的呼吸。但我知道那是錯覺，就像從前我在每一個軀體上看過的錯覺一樣。
我看到她的眼淚從眼角沿著深深的皺紋滑落。沒有嚎哭，只是默默地掉淚。每當淚水快要流下臉頰的時候，她便用小手帕抺掉。看著她蒼老而細小的背影，我想起沙灘上的那個用沙堆砌成的城堡。當海浪捲上沙灘的時候，城堡的一部份都會被帶回海裡去。一次又一次，直至城堡完全消失為止。
我們都繼續在失去各種重要東西。重要的機會或可能性，無法挽回的感情。那些都是活著的含意之一。不過在我們的腦子裡，我想大概是在腦子裡，有把這些東西當作記憶留下來的小房間。一定是像圖書館的書架一樣的房間。而我們為了知道自己心的正確所在，就不得不繼續製作這房間的索引卡。也有必要勤快的打掃，換新空氣，換花瓶的水。換句話說，你永遠要在你自己的圖書館裡活下去。
《海邊的卡夫卡》，村上春樹／著
一個傷口存在著，而現在，我明白這個傷口是多麼深。寫作並沒有如我想像的那樣治癒我，反而使得這個傷口繼續裂開。有時，我甚至覺得它的疼痛集中在我的右手，彷彿每次我一拿起筆，將它壓在紙上，我的手便被扯裂。因此，這些話並沒有將我父親掩埋起來，反而使他繼續活著，而且比以往更鮮活。我不只看到他以前的樣子，也看到他現在的樣子，以及未來的樣子。每一天，他在那兒，侵入我的思緒，沒有預先通知便悄悄溜入我的腦海：他躺在地下的棺材裡，身體仍然原封不動，指甲和毛髮則繼續增長。我覺得，如果我想了解任何事情，我必須滲入這個黑暗的意象，必須進入完全黑暗的地裡。
《一位隱形人的畫像》，保羅．奧斯特／著
What was once before you - an exciting, mysterious future - is now
behind you. Lived; understood; disappointing. You realize you are not
special. You have struggled into existence, and are now slipping
silently out of it. This is everyone's experience. Every single one. The
specifics hardly matter. Everyone's everyone. So you are Adele, Hazel,
Claire, Olive. You are Ellen. All her meager sadnesses are yours; all
her loneliness; the gray, straw-like hair; her red raw hands. It's
yours. It is time for you to understand this.
Walk.
As the people who adore you stop adoring you; as they die; as they move
on; as you shed them; as you shed your beauty; your youth; as the world
forgets you; as you recognize your transience; as you begin to lose your
characteristics one by one; as you learn there is no-one watching you,
and there never was, you think only about driving - not coming from any
place; not arriving any place. Just driving, counting off time. Now you
are here, at 7:43. Now you are here, at 7:44. Now you are...
Gone.
Everything is more complicated than you think.
You only see a tenth of
what is true. There are a million little strings attached to every
choice you make; you can destroy your life every time you choose.
But
maybe you won't know for twenty years. And you may never ever trace it
to its source. And you only get one chance to play it out.
Just try and
figure out your own divorce. And they say there is no fate, but there
is: it's what you create. And even though the world goes on for eons and
eons, you are only here for a fraction of a fraction of a second. Most
of your time is spent being dead or not yet born.
But while alive, you
wait in vain, wasting years, for a phone call or a letter or a look from
someone or something to make it all right. And it never comes or it
seems to but it doesn't really. And so you spend your time in vague
regret or vaguer hope that something good will come along. Something to
make you feel connected, something to make you feel whole, something to
make you feel loved.
And the truth is I feel so angry, and the truth is I
feel so fucking sad, and the truth is I've felt so fucking hurt for so
fucking long and for just as long I've been pretending I'm OK, just to
get along, just for, I don't know why, maybe because no one wants to
hear about my misery, because they have their own.
Well, fuck everybody.
Amen.
- Synecdoche, New York
