Distant Her 2025

W,

Another fall had just escaped us, and at the verge of one more winter, here I am, writing again as I am wandering on.

To be frank, as years goes by, my heart tells me very little what to jot down, rather than allowing my hand just flowing around automatically, since this annual ritual of mine begin to shift from its original catharsis into just a part of my habit, much similar as to light a firecracker during neo year, indeed, no one can really tell why some loud noise are needed for certain time of a year, yet they are lit anyway. Truly, reasons and emotions begin to reach beyond me; all I left to remember is how and when it should happen, and many often how it is done, per se, even surprises me nowadays, another kind fit for the firecracker- lighting analogy. Part of me begins to feel burnt out near each mid-November, yet another part of me always wonders what destination I would arrive at when I entirely let my ritual and habit steer the wheel, instead of any sentiment or logic. When writing, or during any other form of my artistic expression, I almost all the time begin with knowing what I am about to express or where it would end. Sometimes I have this inspiration which I need to vent out or that kind of emotion which I ought to channel, or even sometimes I just have an ending or an image to work towards into or around. And I also believe that most of the artist on this green earth works, or should I say are motivated similarly. Yet every year, when I begin to write this annual greeting to you, for one time of a year, I begin with unknow, work towards unknow, arrive at totally unexpected, and end with one “happy birthday”. To some extent, that is just as fabulous as disorienting at the same time.

Last time you exhorted me to quit both the phantom chasing and past indulgence. I did try my very best to do so during the past year, from winter to winter. Hedonism gives me nothing but pleasure, and with all the desires that I fulfilled comes the sentiment of insignificance. Call it any way fitting, existential crisis or ego dent, giving in to desires and happiness is so easy that it rarely needs me trying. What really hits me is what happens after the climax, the realisation of how helpless I am under the wave of time and how minute I am under this vast sky. At my current state, all my time, energy, and physique limit my vision and desires; sometimes I feel content after big consumption, sometimes artwork, or sometimes secular achievement. I say sometimes simply because they cannot always strike my nerve, no guarantee means no pathology.

Early this fall, after sending off a long-parted friend of mine, I lay in bed and watched an ice cube melt on the table, which we had conversations about during her stay. As it melts and melts, I begin to feel a genuine scarification and even happiness. I never really examined those feelings till then, till your words, till that melting ice. Then I found that what I felt was a link between persons, a genuine connection, another existence in the existential isolation. Maybe for me, what really genuinely can set me happy and content is the connection between me and others who are my loved ones and heroes, be that from the current or the past. Or maybe, that was also an illusion of happiness under the glazing sunbeam, just like that ice.

        Two small stars under one vast skyline, exist or not, ripple so little that impact nearly nothing. Nevertheless, so little and so insignificant as they are, there is no escape for them, not even the hope for escape. To some extent, that is just as disorienting as it is fabulous at the same time.

        Stars and stars, lonely yet separated, intertwined yet inescapable, battered yet full of desires, all melt into thoughts which are so unbearable whenever halted.

        I have no answer.

        今年冬天的起点是雨水与暖冬，往年此时，路边早已一片灰暗，而现在，不少黄绿色的叶子仍旧扒在树上、贴在路边。柿子树有的成熟落地，也有的刚刚结果，路边的人，有的幸福，也有的裹紧大衣。同一个秋去冬来，不同的风景，我不知为何。

           我写下的如是心中所感所想，大多时候，驱动我写下文字的要么是某种情绪，要么是一个心中框架；而唯有每年的这个时刻，每次起笔之前，我无法预测会抵达何处，甚至如何抵达，为何抵达，我都无法猜测。这近乎奇迹一般的灿烂，有时令我疲惫，更多是让我无法拒绝。在多年前，每次我还会问自己心中所想，而近些年，绝大多数时候，我会让一双手自由地运作，然后在几行之后，停下来，轻轻阅读。太多时候，甚至心中有时会默默期待那有可能出现的惊奇，这种心态，让我不仅保留下了这个习惯，也帮助我面对自己。

           从冬天到冬天，我听从建议，尝试了许多内心深处渴望的欲望，即便如此，我仍旧无法承认我是一个勇敢的人，也不是一个幸福快乐的人，因为每次的幸福过后总感到失落与渺小。过去很多年的信笺，我总会在有意无意中想象一个第三视角的观众阅读那些文字，后来我逐渐意识到，那个第三视角不仅是我的想象，也是时间和距离里面悠长的回音。也同时是在那远大的时间与距离之中，我感到的失落与渺小。故此我有时渴望人和人之间的相链，也有时候询问自己，曾经我们是否应当链接？

           我没有答案。

           在我的秋天，有一块冰融化了，而在它融化的那个时刻，我是幸福的，不因为那块冰是稀缺品，也不因为那块冰属于我，更不因为那块冰能带来任何生理上的刺激，仅是因为那块冰承载了一段我和他人的故事。在它融化的那段小小时间之内，我没有感到失落与渺小，我体会到的反而是穿透过去与现在的共同回响，以及与许多人的链接：与爱的人、与爱过的人，与关心的人、与关心过的人、与亲切的人、与亲切过的人、与曾经和现在视为英雄的人。直到那个相融的体验渐渐消失，我才又堕入失落与渺小。

           在我的冬天，一封信被写下，而当它被写下的这个时刻，我不知道我的感受，因为我总是无法预测这封信会抵达何处。但我希望在这封信融化的那个时刻，你是幸福的，是快乐的，不因为这封信的种种任何，仅是因为你的未来确是如此。

           在我的冬天，一封信的结尾被写下，而当它被写下的这个时刻，我最终知道我的感受，因为我总是希望你幸福。

           星星离你我太遥远，星星与星星之间也太过遥远，你我之间亦然，然而同一片灿烂的星河下，没有你和我。是与非，远或近，狼狈与否，都没有逃离。

           我没有答案，不过我总是希望你幸福。

最后的最后，仍旧和往年一样，

生日快乐。

-        张福林

-        2025.11.10