This is the April day on earth, and it is April that Fang Fei will end. April or April, the difference is that through the eyes of different people and through different hearts, different ideas about the world are presented. April will soon pass, but it was a winter many years ago that stood in my heart for a couple of years in the corner.
When I was a kid, the winter was extremely cold, and even if it didn't snow where I grew up, it was enough to tremble. Maybe I'm too young, even if I wear more clothes, the cold will erode me. I remember my father came back from working in the fields, but he was just wearing a thin coat.
My playmates and I are used to playing under a muddy mud wall. Inside the mud wall is a deserted garden, withered and ruined. We only care about the plaything in our hands, and I don't know when, under the wall, an elderly begging couple is sitting next to each other. The woman's hair was fluffy and her face was haggard, and a faded cloth bag hung on her body, which was obviously used to hold begging money. The men's hands were crisscrossed, and the black cloth shoes under his feet had worn holes. He was holding an old, stained guitar with two strings broken. He loosened the strings slightly, trying to reconnect the broken strings. Just then, a playmate came running with a smile, pointing at the couple in the corner and saying to us:
When the two men prayed to his next house, the owner of the house smashed the guitar with a stone.
Someone followed by asking:
Didn't they ask him to pay?
The little friend said:
How dare he make a claim. The man said he was going to hit him. He ran away and ran here.
After we heard him, we all laughed. The man playing the piano heard our laughter, raised his head, looked at us with that pale face, murmured in his mouth, shook his head, and continued to play the strings in his hand. The old woman looked intently at the strings in the man's hands, and there seemed to be tears in her eyes. She kept her head down, and I couldn't see clearly. After a long time, the strings could not be continued by the man. The man said something to the woman, and the woman nodded slightly. The two stood up together and went away in the cold wind. When their figure disappeared completely, another cold wind came over where they disappeared. This time, I did not follow the begging people around the village as curiously as before, but their figure was hidden deep in my heart forever.
The string is indeed broken. What is more thorough than this string is the mercy of this world. Maybe it was too cold that winter and blown away the only heating on the earth. Humility meets apathy, and the heart is more deserted than the garden where no one is involved.
Are we not all beggars of fate? We beg to ourselves, to others, to life, to the world. Sadly, we look at ourselves with our ragged souls on the side of the giver. We are proud of ourselves. It seems that this is the full meaning of our being alive, but this is also the real reason for the fate of our beggars to starve to death. Mr. Lu Xun said: Tragedy is the destruction of meaningful things to others. That scene of the winter was indeed a tragedy, and something was destroyed, but I don't know if this thing makes sense.
The night was getting darker and the wind began to pass by the moonlight outside the house. I slept in the house and couldn't find my name.
When a guitar becomes a tool of begging, its sound no longer means shouting, rock, and boiling blood, and his master knows that breaking strings is sooner or later.
I don't know when the cold wind blows through my doorstep. There are no begging people in the village. Anyway, I was happy, barefoot waiting for the cold wind to roar.