"Autumn Leaves Ci: A Journey of Landscapes and a Journey of Dreams"
——Introduction to the collection of essays on Autumn Events in the Southern Kingdom
Autumn is not a season, it is a page of paper left behind when the mountains and rivers turn. The ink marks seep with mist and rain, and the brush strokes pass over the remaining lotuses in the south of the Yangtze River and the shadows of wild geese in the Chu land. In the gap between the long night and the dawn, the souls of the vegetation are born.
Autumn here is a secret realm where water light and night interweave. The rockery is dyed green, the stream is full of moonlight, and the fragrance of rice hangs low in the ripe fields, forming a poem. Pedestrians walked across the stone bridge with lanterns, and the corners of their clothes were stained with frost, as well as half of the unfinished rhyme of the Bodhisattva's rhyme. There are fishing fires going out in the distance, as if someone has forgotten the prophecy of time, leaving only the Zen feeling of "narcissus blooms alone at night, and the grass and trees don't know the year."
The autumn of stone lions is another album of the old city soaked by the sound of tide. Deep in the alley, the oyster wall exudes salty old dreams, and the wind blows through the hanging bells under the corridor, as if reading a wordless genealogy. There is no Xiao Sa in the north here, only the sea fog crushes the setting sun, turning the messy fishing nets and mottled boat wood into a slightly fishy and sweet autumn drunkenness belonging to the south.
This book uses words as a boat, tracing the river between Sichuan and swamps with overlapping images - sometimes it anchors at the ferry of classical Cipai, picking up fragments of "Tiwan's broken stele, Polygonum flowers are crossing in the dark"; sometimes it sinks into the dusk of the southern fishing port, salvaging the morning and dusk of "Lihu Lake's stars fall, and the salt fields are white." The prose does not pursue narrative, but rather uses the haze as a needle and the autumn water as a thread to embroider an invisible picture of loss, nostalgia and rebirth.
If you have ever heard the secret words of roots stretching in the soil on a frosty dawn; if you are nostalgic for those moments when "unnamed emotions grow older than the seasons" - this book is sent to you, a ten thousand-word plant note.
"Autumn comes slowly, cold comes suddenly.
Only the person who wrote the pen was still picking up gold foil all over the floor, trying to glue it into the moon. "
——I would like to dedicate "Autumn Leaves Ci" to all the dream chasers who salvage light and shadow in the gaps between solar terms.
Intent: prose