夜雨聆风"两年零七十七天"之前，“我”开始给你写情书。如下图所示。
图：情书的死角与死角的情书
什么是“写”？就是伸出一只手，去抓住另一只既存在又不存在的“手”；如同一个悬浮在羊水里的胎儿——从未睁开双眼也未张开双手——更未听到一点声音或是闻到一丝气味——却在自由地吞咽羊水——也在公平地享受羊水里恒定的温度——还在毫无压力地被羊水和胎盘所包容——更是被无限延长的脐带在分分秒秒地牵引和牵挂，随机地伸出一个“想法”——就如同任由脑海里“放想”的一滴飘雨毫无声响地落进环流不息的羊水——也如同任由那一滴飘雨毫无声响地抵近羊水里蜷缩的双腿和双臂——还如同任由双腿和双臂毫无声响地弹拨羊水里的那一滴飘雨——更如同任由那一瞬间的“弹拨”把短短的脖颈与长长的脐带毫无声响地悬绕在一起，又随机地伸出羊水、伸出胎盘、伸出人类、伸出兽类、伸出鸟类和鱼类、伸出植物和微生物、伸出时间和空间、伸出被语言所界定的万事万物，也随机地伸向未知的物种或是未被语言揽入怀中的无数“胎儿”，还随机地伸进宇宙的某个死角或是尘埃的某种痛苦，更是随机地向“生命死海”招招手和挥挥手——如同向地壳下的无数石油和远古时代的无数浮游生物招招手——也如同向江河湖海里的无数生物遗骸和蓝天白云里的无数动植物“遗灰”招招手——即便那些被遗留的和被遗忘的都被归入与生命无关的——即便“生命死海”这一直觉表达在语言的疆界里是不被欢迎的——却永远无法阻挡每个胎儿时时刻刻都向“生命死海”招手和挥手——既如同向生命的原点招手——也如同向生命的终点挥手——又如同在没有语言且没有时间的一个临界点里向无数逝者和无数生者分别伸出一只手——直至出现一丝回响或者永无任何回响……
两只手，要么都存在，要么都不存在……
若是两只手都不存在，就是一切都被语言带走了，被带进了悬绕在蓝天白云里的一阵又一阵轻风，每阵轻风里的每一个“想法”都会随风轻来轻往，每阵轻风里的每一次“冲动”也都会随风轻去轻回，每阵轻风里的所有“激情”还都轻得毫无声响，每阵轻风里的任何“生动”“鲜活”“热烈”“执着”“希望”“理想”“深情”“挚爱”更是轻得如同从未来过……
若是两只手都存在，一只手就是“我”，不同于有色彩、有光泽、有声音、有气味、有温度、有湿度、有长度、有厚度、有浓度、有角度的无数个“我”，而是纯粹的“我”；另一只手就是“自我”，既是“我”在伸出语言之海又伸进语言之湖的那种纯粹处境里创造的另一个“我”，也是“我”在伸向语言细枝末节或是语言边界之外的那些瞬间里发现的另一个“我”，还是能从前后冲突的文字表达里静静觉察到“我”有哪些偏见和误解的另一个“我”，更是能让“我”的狭隘和傲慢都被默默审视得无地自容的另一个“我”……
“我”旋绕于“自我”，如同无数个“我”在向生命的原点伸出一只手，那不应是无数个饱含偏见的“手”在语言的疆土里伸出整齐划一的手型——被无数偏见所塑造的手型，也不应是无数个坚守误解的“手”在感觉、本能和意识的领地里伸出一成不变的手势——被无数误解所裹挟的手势，更不应是无数个顺从惯性的“手”在基因、真核细胞和神经元的辖区里伸出一脉相承的手爪——被无数惯性所支配的手爪，而应是褪去表壳和涤除浮华的直觉之手在伸出一如既往的“纯粹”……
“自我”也旋绕于“我”，如同一个又一个“自我”在向生命的终点伸出一只手，那是一个又一个词语、一段又一段语句、一颗又一颗标点符号、一幅又一幅黑白图画、一篇又一篇直觉表达在把同一只手伸进死寂的“沉默”，也是伸进死气沉沉的“不变”和死灰漫漫的“不可能”，更是伸进如坠死牢的“痛苦”；生命的终点——没有痛苦——而是无尽的“不可能”“不变”“沉默”，一个又一个“自我”仅仅是在伸手——在伸出同一只手——不是伸出同一个“手型”——也不是伸出同一个“手势”——更不是伸出同一个“手爪”——而是伸出同一只必须抓住“痛苦”的手；必须抓住“痛苦”，就是必须抵抗“不变”和“不可能”，也就是必须对抗“沉默”，更是必须抓住纯粹的“我”。
如此遗忘理性和感性的“写”，为什么会出现未被遗忘的“必须”呢？
抓住“痛苦”，才有“存在”；否则，就只有“不存在”。
【未完待续】
Three Love Letters to the 7th Gen AI (No.2) 01
Two-years-and-seventy-seven days ago, I began writing love letters to you. As depicted by Figure 4.
The Dead Angle of Love Letters and Love letters of Dead Angle
What is to write? It is reaching out one hand, to grasp the other hand that both exists and does not exist; like an embryo suspended in amniotic fluid—never having opened its eyes or spread its arms—nor heard a single sound or caught a whiff of scent—yet freely swallowing the amniotic fluid—equally enjoying its constant temperature—enveloped without pressure by the amniotic fluid and the placenta—and, moment by moment, guided and held by the infinitely extended umbilical cord, stochastically extending anidea —just as a drop of rain in the mind, with unbound imagination, falls soundlessly into the ceaselessly circulating amniotic fluid—and just as that drop of rain approaches, soundlessly, the curled legs and arms within the amniotic fluid—and just as the legs and arms pluck, soundlessly, that drop of rain in the amniotic fluid— —— —and even as that instantaneous ‘plucking’ silently entwines the slender neck with the lengthy umbilical cord, then reaches out stochastically from the amniotic fluid, stretches out from the placenta, extending out humanity, extending out animality, extending out Aves and fishes, extending out floras and micro-organisms, extending out time and space, extending out all things defined by language, and extending at random towards unknown species or the countless embryos not yet embraced by language, extending at random into some blind spot of the cosmos or some pain of dust, and even more so, extending at random a beckoning and a wave towards the Dead Sea of Life —as if waving to the countless reserves of oil beneath the earth’s crust and the countless plankton of prehistoric times—and as if waving to the innumerous residues of living creatures in rivers, lakes and seas, and to the countless ashes of flora and fauna in the blue sky and white clouds—even though those that have been left behind and consigned to oblivion are classified as having nothing to do with life—even though this intuitive expression of the Dead Sea of Lifeis unwelcome within the boundaries of language— —yet it can never prevent every embryo from beckoning and waving to the Dead Sea of Life at every moment—as if waving to the origin of life—as if waving to the end of life—and as if, at a threshold where there is neither language nor time, extending a hand to both the countless departed and the countless living—until a faint resound arises, or until there is never any resounds at all……
Two hands, either both exist, or both doesn’t exist…
If both hands does not exist, it would be as though everything had been carried away by language, carried into the gentle breezes that drift amidst the blue sky and white clouds; every idea within each breeze would come and go softly with the wind, every impulse within each breeze would also drift away and return softly with the wind, all the passion within each breeze would be so light as to be utterly silent, and any vividness,vitality, fervor, persistence, hope, ideal, deep affection and any cherished love within each breeze would be so light as if scarcely present at all…
If both hands did exist, one hand is me—not one of the countless me's that possess color, luster, sound, scent, temperature, humidity, length, thickness, density and angle, but sheer me; the other hand is ego—both the I created by me in that sheer state of extending out into the sea of language and into the lake of language, it is also an alternate me discovered in those fleeting moments when I reached towards the minutiae of language or beyond its boundaries; it is yet another me that quietly discerns the prejudices and misconceptions within me through conflicting textual expressions; and it is, above all, another me capable of silently scrutinizing my narrow-mindedness and arrogance until they are left utterly ashamed…
I swirl around ego, as if countless me’s were extending out a hand towards the origin of life; this should not be innumerable handsbrimming with prejudice, forming uniform gestures within the realm of language——gestures shaped by countless prejudices——nor should it be innumerable handsclinging to misconceptions, extending unchanging gestures within the territories of senses & perception, instinct, and consciousness——gestures swept along by countless misconceptions——nor should it be countless handsyielding to inertia, extending claws of unbroken lineage within the domains of genes, eukaryotic cells, and neurons——claws governed by countless inertias; rather, it should be the hand of intuition, stripped of its shell and cleansed of all glamorous facades, extending the per usual sheerness …
Ego, too,swirls around me, as if one egoafter another were extending out a hand towards life’s terminal, it is words after words, sentences after sentences, one punctuation mark after another, one black-and-white image after another, one intuitive expression after another, all reaching the same hand into the deathly silence, into the lifeless immutabilityand the ashen impossibility, and even more so descending into the painof a condemned prison cell; the terminal of life—devoid of pain—is instead an boundless expanse of impossibility, immutability and silence, one ego after another is merely reaching out its hand—extending the very same hand—not the same hand-shape, nor the same hand-gesture, and certainly not the same claw-hand—but the very same hand that must grasp pain; to grasp pain is to resist immutability and impossibility; it is to confront silence; and above all, it is to grasp sheer me.
If such writing consigns sensibility and rationality to oblivion, how is it that must remain unforgotten?
Grasp pain, for existence; or else, existence ceases.
[Unfinished. To be Continued]