"Anyone who cannot come to terms with his life while he is alive needs on hand to ward off a little his despair over his fate—he has little success in this—but with the other hand he can note down what he sees among the ruins, for he sees different (and more) things than do the others; after all, dead as he is in his own lifetime, he is the real survivor. This assumes that he does not need both hands, or more hands than he has, in his struggle against despair."--Kafka



Sunday, May 31, 2009

VIIV

近日其實讀了許多書,看了許多電影,也去了一些音樂會,但我什麼都寫不出來。
我沉迷上網,讀報紙,看舊影片,回憶VIIV,都多少年了,總是覺得自己白活了我的青葱歲月,是對那些早逝的靈魂不敬似的。
其實麻痺自己的神經許久許久,「有理想,沒行動」是好友對我的評價,我的確痛,遙遠的年代,我讀著書,我為南京大屠殺、抗日戰爭而哭,還有陰魂不散的VIIV,但生活迫人,我麻木了,為小小的個人得失而煩惱。
直至讀了謝志峰的訪問,我不禁飲泣,我想起民族,以及人類,歷史是公正的,血一般的歷史不能磨滅,我覺得自己太自私了。
不敢遺忘,不忍遺忘,我懺悔,我愧疚沒有把更多的背在背上。

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