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<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<title>Autumn Day Reflections</title>
<h1>Reflections on an Autumn Day</h1>
<h3>10/15/24</h3>
<hr>
<style>
.container {
display: flex;
justify-content: center;
align-items: center;
max-width: 800px;
margin: auto;
gap: 20px;
}
.vertical-image {
max-height: 600px;
width: auto;
object-fit: contain;
}
.right-images {
display: flex;
flex-direction: column;
justify-content: space-between;
gap: 5px;
}
.square-image {
max-width: 100%;
height: auto;
object-fit: contain;
}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<p>此刻我的耳机里播放着弦乐，Experience经验，专辑名叫In A Time Lapse, 封面是一颗秋树。</p>
<hr>
<p>
无论是在我从小长大的城市，贵阳。亦或是地球另一端的威斯康辛，Menasha，春与秋的季节都是如此短暂。似乎仅仅是不出一周的时间，人无法察觉的时刻里，树叶便奇迹般地变了颜色；我窗外红与绿渐变的树影让人光一眼便好似能感受到萧瑟，肃杀的秋风割过因冰冷而更加紧绷的脸颊。
<br><br>
上一次写作是什么时候呢？真正静下心来，反思我所看到的世界与那样一种脆弱沉醉的对灵与物的感知。我想已经过了许久。这三年的时间我的心灵好像更加浑浊与迷失，所幸我还仅存着那么一点的欣赏这世界的能力，哪怕不及从前；从前十一二岁的年纪读着“读不懂”的马尔克斯，现实与虚构在文学的强力中扭曲，仅仅是走在沥青路边一个寒冷潮湿的雨天，青草味的泥水被我们无法解释的力量转换为气，我又不知为何的感知到它们。一切都如此平静与孤独，魔幻与奇妙。
<br><br>
没有人的街上刮着寒冷的秋风，加油站红绿的光芒是另一种意义上变色的叶子，街灯闪着零星的光，我穿着大而不合身的夹克，骑着自行车去上已经开始了一半的数学课。学校里已经没有多少人了，教室里的暖气开的出奇的大，让人犯困，脑中的数与运算被扭曲为一种奇怪的组合。我想到几年前也是这样冷的时候，我坐在补课班充斥着怪味的破旧教室里，偷偷的看着布鲁诺舒尔茨的《鳄鱼街》，也是这样的温暖，耳边是光与电的物理。我突然觉得事物是荒谬与魔幻的，夜里人造的光像是几只凌厉的冷眼，那些瞳孔里没有颜色与情绪，只是冷的可怕。冷风吹袭的强力似乎无可逆转，但我们呆在水泥造的立方建筑物里，缩在一个充满热气的更小的室里，如同一个极不具有安全感的动物和它的巢穴。黑板上那些数与式在我们眼里本如此伟大与充满智慧，在这样人造的巢里它们却那么平淡与无力。火种是普罗米修斯的馈赠，那数就像是由我们牵引的热量里被那几双寒眼所裹挟的火星。
<br><br>
可望着金黄的落叶，被设计的铺满败叶的走道边的枯枝与它背后纯净的蓝天，手旁可触及之处不知名的长在方格里的红色浆果丛，我此刻却觉得人有着无比的神性。
</p>
<div class="container">
<img src="images/script.jpg" alt="Vertical Image" class="vertical-image">
<div class="right-images">
<a href="https://soundcloud.com/ludovicoeinaudi/ludovico-einaudi-in-a-time-13?in=bcsk/sets/relax"> <img
src="images/In_a_Time_Lapse.jpg" alt="Square Image 1" class="square-image">
</a>
<img src="Art/St Antonius_Franz Sedlacek.jpg" alt="Square Image 2" class="square-image">
</div>
</div>
<hr>
<p style="font-size: 19px;">At the moment I have strings playing in my headphones, <b>Experience</b>, the album is
called <i>In A Time
Lapse</i>, and the cover is an autumn tree.</p>
<hr>
<p style="font-size: 19px;">
Whether it's in the city I grew up in, Guiyang. Or on the other side of the world in Wisconsin, Menasha, the spring
and fall seasons are so short. It seems that in less than a week's time, the leaves miraculously change color in
moments that one can't even notice; the red and green shadows of the trees outside my window make it seem as if one
can feel the sluggishness at a single glance, and the killing autumn wind cuts across cheeks that are even more taut
from the cold.
<br><br>
When was the last time I truly sat down to write, to reflect deeply on the fragile intoxication I feel towards the
spiritual and the material world? It seems like ages have passed. In these three years, my soul feels muddied and
adrift, yet I am grateful that a small spark of appreciation for this world still flickers within me, even if it is
dimmer than before.
I remember being eleven or twelve, reading Márquez — stories I could hardly grasp. The line between reality and
fiction twisted under the spell of his words. Just walking along the asphalt road on a cold, damp rainy
day, the scent of muddy water mixed with the aroma of fresh grass would be transformed by some inexplicable force
into an almost ethereal vapor, and I would inexplicably sense it. The world felt so calm, so lonely, yet filled with
a magical, surreal wonder.
<br><br>
A cold autumn wind blew in the deserted streets, the red and green glow of the gas station was another sense of
discolored leaves, the streetlights flickered sporadically, and I rode my bike in my large, ill-fitting jacket to a
math class that was already halfway through. There weren't many people left in the school, and the heat in the
classroom was turned up surprisingly loud, making you sleepy and twisting the numbers and arithmetic in your head
into a strange combination. I thought of the time a few years ago when it was this cold, too, and I was sitting in
the dilapidated classroom of a cram school filled with strange odors, secretly watching Bruno Schulz's The Street of
Crocodiles in the same warmth, with the physics of light and electricity in my ears. I suddenly felt that things
were absurd and magical, the artificial light in the night was like a few harsh cold eyes, there was no color or
emotion in those pupils, they were just cold and scary. The force of the cold wind seemed irreversible, but we were
in a cubic building made of concrete, shrunken in an even smaller chamber filled with heat, like a highly insecure
animal and its lair. The numbers and equations on the blackboard, which are so great and full of wisdom in our eyes,
are so bland and powerless in such a man-made nest. The fire was a gift from Prometheus, and the numbers were like
sparks in the heat drawn by us and held hostage by those cold eyes.
<br><br>
But looking at the golden leaves, the dead branches along the aisle that were designed to be covered with leaves,
the pure blue sky behind them, and the unknown red berry bushes growing in squares within reach, I felt at this
moment that man had an incomparable divinity.
</p>
</body>
</html>