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
