KEYUE WANG|王可越

A face

One face, how handsome and beautiful. The other, vibrant and spirited.

Visiting an exhibition of portraits, it is difficult to correspond the images in the paintings to specific people. Unless I know them, which unfortunately I don’t.

I’m afraid the photos are more visual than that. When I see photos of unfamiliar faces, I think about where they are today.

How old they are, where they are now, how their bodies are. How their faces will change.

The two people on the wall are tender and affectionate.

But they could not resist the current of fate.

Fate swept away one of them, and then the other.

There was no omen and no echo.

I know the story of the person in the painting, and I see the melancholy hidden in moments of joy.

It is the shadow beneath the sweet smile.

The Secret

I have a secret that I can’t tell you.

Until later …… I forgot about it.

What is important, gradually becomes unimportant

Further on, it was forgotten.

The things you mentioned.

When I remembered, I didn’t want to tell you.

Now that I’ve forgotten, I don’t know where to start with you.

Generating electricity with air

Someone once introduced me to a new venture, generating electricity with air.

His proclamation was infectious and I listened with rapt attention.

He had a light in his eyes, his hand muscles tensed as he waved, and he believed everything he said.

To his powerful intellect, a mere saving of humanity was nothing.

Back then, water to oil still needed water as raw material.

Air, the least shortage of air on earth, is air.

This story is perfect, we have a lot of free resources, once and for all.

I was infected by his enthusiasm.

Any abundant enthusiasm makes me rejoice.

Speaking of utopia.

In a tone of conviction

It was like reading a fantasy prophetic poem.

The story was pure because it was false.

When I listened to him, there was only enthusiasm in the air.

Passion in the air, sparking.

Perhaps this is the principle of power generation for his story.

Hearing distant sounds

As we sat in the courtyard, G claimed to have heard sounds coming from across the lake.

There was a wooden tower on the other side of the road with a lake underneath it. After seeing the grounds and crossing the road, we walked for twenty minutes and saw that there were indeed people playing drums on the other side of the lake.

G claimed to be extra sensitive to sound and that sounds from far away would enter her nerves.

At the lake, she mentioned that once in Suzhou, she stayed in a rundown hotel next to a garden. Although the room was shabby, she slept very deeply.

If one sleeps well, it proves that the world is quiet. I had no way to argue with this reverse reasoning.

We were making small talk when she suddenly fell silent.

I also held my breath.

Who knows what she heard again.

A very distant sound, how far away is it?

Maybe from the north, still on the road with the wind.

These sounds are happening, and I know it’s a very slow arrow.

But all I can hear is the sound of my own spittle gulping.

My keys

I kept my old keys in the drawer for miscellaneous items.

Mixed with expired medicine, candles, needles and thread, and pens.

I just pulled out three of them and I forgot which door they could open.

The other two, I know their doors have had their locks changed.

And one, which I know I can open, I can no longer get to.

I’ve seen some doors, red, yellow, white, black, wood, iron, simple and complex.

These doors, I do not have the keys.

The other keys, I don’t know where their doors are.

After a few years, the keys are still in the drawer.

I don’t want to throw away the old keys.

It’s like they still have their own missions.

Keeping a key is like holding on to an inexact possibility.

With the key, I still have the possibility to open a door.

With the key, I may still go back.

It’s a ridiculous assumption.

But I still have them.

What might happen tomorrow

Once in a small town in Ireland.

We passed a huge fir tree and talked about the trees and grass in the distance, they were growing so fast.

“Everything is going to disappear.

The green of the suburbs will eventually swallow up everything here.”

I touch the lines of the tree trunk and

Talking about the end of decay is as comforting to me as stroking the rough bark.

Especially since the trunk has a hollow.

I could stick my fingers in.

Even though this action frightens me.

The sky was bright and dark, seemingly related to the tone of our conversation.

The grass grows faster when we’re not talking.

Passing beetle is also attracted to nihilism.

Stopping to listen to what might happen tomorrow.

Snake

One night three years ago, I drank a glass of fresh snake blood with white wine in Wuhan, and chewed a snake bile.

Biting through the bile of a poisonous snake is very bitter and covers the fishy blood.

Later, I dreamed that a large black snake, several times my size, was crawling down a cliff.

I threw a coin to harass it. The black snake would believe me and protrude its tongue.

I crouched down. I saw the coin rolling between the rocks.

I woke up, a little timid, but generally happy.

Because Rilke said: If my devil leaves me, my angel will also be gone.

My demon was still there, like a snake living in my body.

I am saturated with poisonous blood. Still have to guess the final front or back of the coin that fall in my dreams.

Where is my angel? Nowhere to be seen on the hillside in the backyard.

She may be in an egg, about to grow feathers.

Dead leaves

Standing very high up, there was no way to see these dead leaves.

They are just an idea, the outline of a group.

The details of a dead leaf have to go down to see, it is best to bend down and take a closer look.

The falling poplar leaves smell good.

They end up in different poses.

Like a hand, a burning fire, or a dancing body.

Leaves don’t have to worry about their posture.

The soft, last part of their lives, drained by the sun.

They don’t need to plan a freeze frame.

Their insides are solidified with the energy of summer.

They lie there, displaying a unique struggle.

Even as they dried up, I wanted to honor them.

I stepped on them and the dead leaves made a crunching sound.

The end, this time, was also very dry.

The blade of a knife

I show a new knife to a friend in a faraway place.

It has a pattern called Damascus engraved on both sides.

You see, it’s a really nice knife.

I don’t have anything else to show anyway.

At least now it was brand new and looked very sharp.

I swung the knife and sliced the head of a large squid, and it came out clean.

Let’s see, what else can I cut?

With a new knife, I never want to put it down.

I worry that it will soon dull, and this interval might not be too long.

The blade is a temptation, and I run my fingers across the brightest part.

I am careful to make gentle contact.

Nevertheless, the brand-new blade, too, can cause damage in the imaginary heart.

Feast of Joy

Earthly life is short, but we still believe it has the potential to last forever.

Even though rationally we know that the word eternity does not make sense.

But who would readily admit that a good meal is too good to eat?

The colorful dishes are served in nice bowls and plates.

Ice cold wine was poured.

The glasses are pushed and the songs are sung.

Eat not much, watch the lively.

The red eye shadow under the curved eyebrows and the flowery tattoos on the drinkers’ arms also help.

Gathering popularity is a layer of smoke.

The night is cold, a few people do not know what to do, occasionally cold, only a few dry cough.

A flash of thought, I remember, the feast is easy to break up.

The food that can not be finished on the table, to go into the trash.

The food that is finished in the stomach, the next day into the sewer.

Even if there is such a thought, it must be dispelled.

Immediately laugh up and raise a glass, There is still more to go on.

When the wine is down, the atmosphere can be temporarily optimistic.

I can always still participate in the hustle and bustle of life.

Without me, the moon, the sun and wine, what meaning do they have?