Haze – 霾 – English

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The sun is covered by a layer of gray yarn, its colour has gone slightly pale.

Grey is the subject. Grey day, grey wall, grey snow, grey world. Even I have been touched by a stroke of grey, a faint touch, but enough to cover both my eyes. When, and from afar, will a wild goose come flying, a gentle breeze blowing, to cast away the grey, cast away this cover from my eyes? But as it comes, I see it in the distance as grey point, and I am thinking, it is a grey point. To see the world through grey is spleen, depression.

How can the sky be so low, the pressure so high that people forget to breathe, we’re stopped in our step, trapped where we are. One day, two days waiting for rescue, waiting for the face of the sun not to be pale. One day, two days, we wait. When our temples are grey, we will still be waiting. When we enter the coffin, we will still be waiting. Is it that we can only wait, wait and see, for time to get old, for the world to be spent, for homes to get old and grey?

I want to escape, escape from the prison, and I also want to rescue people, rescue people and become a hero, become beloved by the millions. However, who am I? I’m too small, after all, this is just haze, grey haze. My personal resistance, no matter how big a wave it raises, will only be a ray, a stroke.

Sitting, watching, waiting. No, I don’t want this, we always have to do something, even if it’s just push on our cheeks and desperately blow out. Or maybe I can blow the grey away, blow away that thin yarn. In fact, I know this is just wishful thinking, but even if it doesn’t achieve anything, at least I’ve done it, we’ve done it. As long as we do something, we won’t be just sitting, watching, waiting.

I miss things, I miss the smell of previous winters. This was a taste of the sun, the sun in the sky and the sun on earth. And there was the taste of cold, that knife-like cold, adding cut to inside my nose, that is the taste I miss.

It’s been long since I last tasted it, even if occasionally the sun breaks through the barrier and shines on my face through the window. I can only feel it through the window, feel its warm taste. The glass now has a layer of gray at the surface, and I’m afraid, really afraid. When I see the gray, I can’t do anything.

In fact, I want to escape, when I escape and go there, life will continue. A line has been tied to the stake, and I can only go in a grinding circle. Jump out of the circle, let go of everything? To be honest, I don’t have that courage, I haven’t actually ever had any.

Haze, that gray yarn, has changed many many things. I’m only thinking, what we should do now, we should bring the world back, back to the way we once knew it. Is this hard? It is hard, so hard.

I live in this era, the years are rushing past. Material life is rich, and brings me all its accessories. Bear, we must bear the price of it. In 10 years perhaps, or in 20, we won’t be able to see. The tall blue sky, the immaculate snow. I really hope that our children will be able to see it, cast their eyes on this world. Just like I was able to see it, the world this way is so intoxicating, without grey, without the grey yarn. Once it’s how it was every day, not once in a while.

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Source : 新浪博客

About Michael Broughton