Part 1: Lying in Bed at Night, Listening to the Wind and Rain
It's been raining a lot these past few days, and I don't know when I started to enjoy the sound of rain. Lying in bed, I close my eyes and quietly listen to the pattering, rustling, and sometimes heavy rain outside the window. I can't help but think of Xin Qiji's "Lying in Bed at Night, Listening to the Wind and Rain" and Li Shangyin's "Leaving behind the withered lotus leaves to listen to the sound of rain," these famous lines from the ages. Lying quietly, listening quietly, at this moment, I think of nothing at all. My heart slowly calms down, and I possess a sense of inner peace. In this stillness, I feel a profound and expansive feeling, giving my soul tranquility and peace. It seems as if I've escaped the storms of the mundane world and the weariness of life. Perhaps many people have already experienced or are experiencing the storms of life. Therefore, they have this feeling of the wind and rain in nature and the trials of life. Listening to the sounds of the natural wind and rain, I feel a sense of peace and tranquility within. Lying in bed listening to the wind and rain, I truly felt a similar sense of urgency to Gorky's "Bring on, storm!"...
Experiencing hardship and suffering in youth, in retrospect, isn't necessarily a bad thing. It's a kind of accumulation in life, enriching one's life and deepening one's inner world. If someone is born with everything, with everything readily available, they may appear outwardly successful, but what about their inner self? More likely, they're rotten inside. Look at today's rich kids—how many are ignorant and have caused their parents so much trouble?! In life, only what you truly gain through hard work and dedication brings peace of mind and meaning! It's like my experience playing mahjong: winnings disappear quickly, and I don't care much. Therefore, one should walk their own path, based on their own circumstances and reality, and be less influenced by those bizarre and outlandish things.
Listening to the rain is most pleasant; listening to the rain is like listening to a song. But listening to the rain isn't all tranquility and peace; it can also be oppressive, unsettling, and unsettling. The depth of one's understanding and feelings after listening to the rain reflects one's own character. I love listening to the rain because its sound is a celestial melody amidst the chaos of the world, touching the fading innocence within. The ethereal and dreamlike quality of the rain is like a poignant lament, "Though seemingly heartless, it is full of emotion." Rain, though sometimes chaotic, often guides people from restlessness and impulsiveness, from lingering emotions and sadness, from despair and loneliness, towards a different direction and transformation in life. Towards openness, towards calmness, towards rationality, towards magnanimity, towards sublimation…
Lying quietly in bed, listening to the rain, listening to the rain… gradually drifting into a dream…
Part Two: Lying in bed at night
, listening to the wind and rain The night air seemed frozen in death, as oppressive as my mood, making me feel suffocated… The clouds continued to fall, as if about to scatter among the treetops, and my heart was slowly falling with them. The internet was also deserted, with only a few old internet addicts chatting idly… Several days have passed without any news from you. I remember that morning, I had just turned on my phone when I received your call. All I heard on the other end was your silent sobbing… I asked you several times, but you didn't say a word. I was at a loss, searching through my dictionary for words of comfort, my mind exhausted of any words of advice, but in the end, you still said nothing. You hung up. I picked up the wine jug and poured myself a full cup. Ah, what can dispel sorrow? Only wine! I held the cup, taking small sips. Today's wine seemed much weaker than usual.
When I emerged from purgatory and stepped into this autumn, those days were murky, filled with confusion. I experienced too much pain, too much silence; the road was bumpy and muddy.
I was slightly tipsy, my blood was rushing, my head was sinking, and a restless emotion was gradually rising.
The night breeze outside the window brought a chill, weaving together a strange feeling
…
Oh, I don't know when it started to rain and mist outside. I lifted my blurry eyes and looked out the window. In the distance, a dim streetlamp illuminated a puddle of water on the ground, raindrops falling upon it, rippling like soft smiles.
I can't forget that moonlit night. The hazy moonlight filtered through the night mist, casting an unusual solemnity on the stone bridge. The swaying bamboo shadows and the murmuring stream created a sense of tranquility, as if in a dream. We embraced on a smooth boulder.
As I slowly cupped your face in my hands, gazing into your tender eyes, and whispered my longing for you, I could vaguely feel a blush of happiness spread across your hazy face in the night, and I could feel your burning breath.
The wind was gentle, the rain was misty…
The wind in the rain lacked the unique elegance and freedom of the autumn wind; the rain in the wind lost the unique torrential downpour and exhilaration of the autumn rain.
I dragged over a deck chair, nestled inside, and listened to the melody of the wind and rain in the night.
A breeze rippled through the empty night, playing a melodious tune like a saxophone. It drifted gently, so tender and lingering. The wind softly carried the fine rain onto the leaves of a row of cypress trees, like gently vibrating maracas, rhythmically accompanying the saxophone…
“Since parting, I recall our meeting, how many times my soul and dreams have been with you. Tonight, I'll light the silver lamp again, still fearing our meeting is but a dream.”
Life is a book, and you are a page in the story of my life. Reading you is so easy, but understanding you is so difficult!
If I can endure the unforgettable longing without you, letting that longing dilute my loneliness, but can I escape the darkness of loneliness, I don't know.
Was that shooting star that streaked across the night sky your transformed eye? Was that the light cloud that drifted overhead your fleeting figure?
When lightning flashes, piercing through layers of rain, it illuminates my thoughts, copying my emotions onto every shimmering raindrop, scattering them across every corner of the night, flowing freely everywhere. As long as you're in this city, you'll be surrounded by this wave of information.
A long, long time passed before I could faintly make out the sound of thunder. There seemed to be a hint of weariness in that sound.
Some say, "Suffering makes for a beautiful life. Learn to understand suffering, don't be intimidated by its apparent cruelty. Unfold it layer by layer; this is the most alluring and meaningful project in life. Generations have repeatedly experienced suffering, but how many dare to linger before it and become accustomed to this bitter taste?"...
Your deep, melancholic gaze, your once-blooming smile, your focused listening to the flowers bloom in the quiet night, and the sorrowful expression as they fall—these often drift into my dreams.
The night is deep, and I still keep my eyes closed, letting my eardrums search for the beautiful music in the wind and rain.
The wind seemed to have lessened considerably, but the rain intensified. The mournful saxophone melody gradually faded and drifted away. In such a night, in such a melody, one's imagination is most easily stirred, evoking dreams.
God created a pair of lovers who would never be separated, yet humanity has bound their own hearts with ropes of their own making, giving rise to countless stories of separation and resentment. Why is this? I ask the wind of the night, I ask the rain in the wind…
“The night is long and I cannot sleep, my soul wanders alone until dawn.”
Part Three: Lying awake at night, listening to the wind and rain. In youth, I listened to the rain
in a singing pavilion, red candles dimly illuminating the silk curtains. In middle age, I listened to the rain in a traveler's boat, the river low, the clouds vast, a lone wild goose crying in the west wind. Now I listen to the rain under the eaves of a monk's hut, my temples already gray. Joy and sorrow, separation and reunion, are all indifferent. I let the raindrops fall before the window until dawn.
I like to hold a cup of tea alone, silently listening to the rain by the window. Lower the awning in front of the window and let the raindrops patter on it. A light drizzle is like the melody of an unnamed piece of music, without rules, lonely and wandering, elusive and impossible to grasp; one can only quiet the mind and listen silently. A sudden downpour is like a grand symphony of heaven and earth, a cacophony of sounds, like a thousand horses galloping in. If one is inclined to listen, close one's eyes, and the glint of swords and shadows will vividly appear in one's mind.
I remember when I was in the third year of junior high, it was around eight o'clock after extra classes. Stepping out of the warm classroom, I leaned against the railing and looked down. The rain had just stopped, but the ground was still flooded. All was quiet except for the dripping water from the eaves, making a thumping sound. A gust of cold wind would snap me out of my numb, tense state of studying. The sycamore leaves of late autumn covered the ground, and my classmates and I would walk home shoulder to shoulder, trudging through the wet leaves, chatting and discussing our lessons and problems along the way. There were no youthful songs in the towers, no forced sentimentality, only endless formulas and theorems. At that time, I felt that our lives were not very poetic, not very beautiful, and even somewhat disappointing.
Whenever I reached the school gate, I would often see the teacher sitting in the gatehouse under the dim light, struggling to read the newspaper. The test papers he had just collected bulged in his black cloth bag; that was his work for the night. On a rainy autumn night, a single lamplight only served to highlight the desolate loneliness of a solitary firefly.
Summers in Jinan are rainy. In the months following the middle school entrance exams, there were several rainstorms. August arrived in the blink of an eye, bringing a new wave of students taking extra classes and another batch of soon-to-be graduates. My home was very close to the middle school I would graduate from, and every day I would stand at my window watching the students go to and from school. Sometimes, a sudden downpour would begin, the pattering sounds blending into a continuous curtain of rain, obscuring distant scenery. All I could see were colorful umbrellas blooming on the street, slowly moving forward. Under the umbrellas, the students would gather, shoulder to shoulder, still lively and chattering, repeating the same topics that had always been popular among students. Only the people under the umbrellas had changed again and again, and I could no longer find any familiar faces.
Occasionally, I would see a familiar face in the crowd—my former teacher, still as tall and strong as ever, still striding forward as before, only his back was more hunched, and his temples were now gray. I don't know if it's these storms, these silent trials, that leave their mark on the passage of time.
I remember spending time there; a sensitive person, listening intently to the rain, will always feel a range of emotions. When things have changed, encountering familiar sights and sounds can sometimes bring tears to my eyes. Perhaps I can no longer hear the dripping rain from the eaves after a late autumn rain, perhaps I can still see the scenes of returning home in the downpour, but I can still lie in bed late at night, quiet my mind, and listen carefully to the torrential rain outside the window, to the howling wind. Closing my eyes, I vividly recall sharing the rain with my classmates, laughing and chatting. The image of my teacher seems to still clearly appear before my eyes.
I miss the rain of last autumn.
Part Four: Lying Alone at Night Listening to the Wind and Rain
The rain outside, illuminated by the lamplight, scattered like glittering silver needles, its pattering sound exceptionally clear. The sounds of cars passing by and the whistling of leaves in the wind echoed all around. You can imagine the silence inside. Was this a stalemate with your wife over whether or not to go online, a way of giving each other space and time to think? Or was it building up the atmosphere for a full-blown battle? Either way, it was perfectly fitting for such a rainy night.
Imagine, outside, the pattering rain is a cool, melodious sound from the heavens, a romance and transcendence not usually found. The two of you are so close, yet unhindered. In your respective, relatively isolated spaces, you can give yourselves a reason to calm down, constantly reflecting on your own inappropriate words and actions, or secretly rejoicing at provoking the other's anger. In the world of a married couple, each other's anger is like a series of small victories. These victories are meant to be limited; perpetual victory signifies marital failure, and happiness vanishes with each triumph. This lifelong battle, and the joy it brings, is sweet yet slightly bitter, like coffee—bitter on the outside, but irresistible in its aroma, making one reluctant to give it up. This happiness may be fleeting, ephemeral, for after a moment of tranquility, something like tonight's rain may follow, soaking their intertwined hearts. The warmth of the past will vanish without a trace, leaving a stifling, oppressive feeling; the pouring raindrops may instantly transform into drops of blood flowing from the heart. In such a bitter storm, a family of three, without relatives or friends in a small town, is like a small boat tossed about in a storm, constantly causing heart-wrenching pain. Thinking of this, I was filled with self-reproach, deeply regretting my indulgence in comfort. My thoughts stagnated, sinking into an endless darkness, as if I could see no light.
Inside the house, my wife and daughter were talking softly. Judging from their voices, it was a joyful and liberating conversation, like birdsong flowing through leaves after rain, the elastic vibrations like glistening pearls sliding off the tips of leaves, the rainbow reflected like shimmering light in the clouds. My heart instantly felt relieved. The heavy guilt slowly crept up the damp walls and tree trunks like a snail, and my breathing became much more even. Perhaps she had forgiven my mistake. Indulging in the internet, especially purely for entertainment, can indeed devour a person's youth, future, talent, and beauty like a demon.
Although my wife doesn't possess outstanding talent or extraordinary wisdom, she diligently manages this impoverished family in addition to her busy work. My wife is a teacher at a prestigious high school. The school's strict management and excellent traditions have instilled a "self-motivated" spirit in every teacher. The workload is immense. I myself graduated from that school, and I still vividly remember that experience. The school's closed management, early morning and evening self-study sessions, meant only one day off a week. The various adult exams, high school entrance exams, college entrance exams, and the school's monthly, midterm, and final exams, along with the invigilation and grading of papers, further consumed many of her holidays. Yet, my wife also shouldered the majority of the household chores. Because my work schedule is highly demanding, the burden of cooking, washing, and shopping fell entirely on her shoulders. So, whenever I had time, I would actively share these responsibilities with her, finding some solace in my guilt. We are both working-class, with no special income or savings; we started from scratch. To save money, my wife would always get up early to go to the North Ring Wholesale Market to buy cheaper goods. My wife often offers me words of advice, afraid that her directness might hurt my feelings. She always uses a story or a program to remind me of my own shortcomings. I understand her good intentions perfectly, and how could I not bow my head in shame before her? I write about my life, feeling the warmth of love, and my wife is the protagonist of that life, releasing that warmth of love through her hard work and dedication.
I quietly sense my wife's words and breath, knowing that she has forgiven me; my sixth sense strongly suggests that I pressed the confirmation button. Perhaps it's because I've never extinguished the dream in my heart, like a swallow chasing spring, year after year, tirelessly on my journey. Even if I momentarily yearn for the green hills and clear waters of other places, the warm sun is always the direction I pursue. My wife has always been happy, supportive, worried, and encouraging for my persistence, giving me ample space for forgiveness. Perhaps this time, my wife considered that today is Sunday, a day for rest, and that I shouldn't make a fuss about it! As the saying goes, a balance between work and rest is the way of both literature and martial arts, because she often taught her students and daughter this. I searched for a thousand reasons to explain the change from heavy to relaxed, using every piece of favorable evidence to give myself an excuse to back down, but in the face of responsibility and love, I maintained a clear understanding and definition of the difference between the eternal and the fleeting, between pursuit and decadence.
The rain stopped, and raindrops sliding down the eaves and branches tapped the world sparsely, a melodious patter. My heart's journey reached a resting place. I got up from the bedside, leaned on the desk, and gently went outside, breathing in the fresh air, looking up at the sky. Occasionally, one or two stars peeked behind the clouds, and I thought that perhaps the sky would clear up tomorrow.
