Aloneness, Fear, and the Dearness of Being.

 

I walked to the public clinic in my neighborhood after breakfast that day to have the gauze on my right arm (which was balling-up already as it had stayed there for 5 goddamn days) taken off forever. As I was on my way, the expected unpleasant feeling of finally meeting the ugly scars out of 8 stitches was offset by my excitement about finally being able to have a proper bath in half a month. I felt calm, and alone. The aloneness, definitely not in a pathetic way, refers me to the aloneness I felt the moment I fell off that motorbike, lying in my own blood. I shall call it the “ultimate aloneness”. I realized people were piling around me asking whether I was okay, but knowing that I was getting help from warm-hearted strangers didn’t to the slightest degree lighten that aloneness I was feeling – the kind one would never had any idea of until one went through the sheer moment in peril of ceasing to live.

The aloneness, as I tried to reason it, was because the intense emotion, the tremble of soul after visiting the edge between being and not-being is in no way to be shared with anyone else, not even your closest ones. You may try with all the words you know and all the languages available , but you gathered it would be a doomed failure. You would never be satisfied enough with what you could possibly deliver, nor could you stop suspecting others when they claimed they understood. You had it all to yourself. It became a locked secret that you never intended to keep.

I insist that it has to be after I get rid of the last piece of bandage that I’ll start to put things down in words. Otherwise I can’t be chilled enough to look back and think over the whole incident, knowing that the leftover of the self-sympathy in my body would always come in the way to keep me from a neutral confession.

However, as I’m finally determined to give it a try now, when I close my eyes, retrieve my memory and replay that scene, the sense of alienation I spent so long to build up become flooded by the same old fear in an eye blink. So I just said it, fear. It was fear that swallowed me at that moment, so huge a fear that made me forget to pull the brake at my left hand, forget to let go of the accelerator at my right hand, forget to turn the vehicle around, forget everything I was supposed to do. I was completely absorbed in that dark-hole alike fear that I gave up doing anything but simply waited for it to happen — letting it be whatever it ought to be. (If I was gonna die, I would die. If I was gonna be a disabled ever after, I would have to live with that.) It happened, the “Bang!”, the crash. The process was very quick, but not quick enough. I waited for a while, confirmed with myself that I was still alive, then there started the unbearable pain.

Today as I revisited the scene, months after it, just as every single time I revisited it ever since it happened, I couldn’t help gasping at it with my heart rate going straight up as I had no choice but to go over that dreadful fear. It seems to not decrease at all as time goes by. I doubt if fears of this kind will ever fade away after all.

People say I was strong to bear with the whole thing. It wasn’t true. I was at my weakest, body and mind. I cried frequently, sometimes due to the pain, while other times I simply just wanted to.

But you see, I was actually unbelievably lucky, underneath all. My body got to retain its full function with no bones broken, and my face was miraculously unmarred. No, “lucky” is too superficial a word for my luckiness. I hold no intention to overrate or underestimate my luckiness, just as I’m not inclined to exaggerate or understate my unluckiness. Whatever it puts me through, to endure is the only fair solution I’m left with.

I have no answer for what alteration this incident exerted on me in specific terms. For all I can say, if there was one occurrence that revealed my earnestness for life I tried so hard to defy, this is it.

————————————————————————————————————

那天早上早饭后我一个人走去最近的公立诊所,打算把右肩上由于已经帖了5天而变得毛乎乎的纱布拆掉。我知道将要见到缝了8针后丑陋的伤疤必然会让心情变得糟糕,但半个月以来终于可以洗一个痛快的澡,仍让我对此迫不及待。我走在路上,心情平静,除了一种奇异的孤独感。奇异之处,在于它并不像人们通常在提起孤独时带有一种淡淡的感伤意味。这仅仅是纯粹的孤独(我找不到更好的词来替代)——我只有自己,也只能有自己——这和我从摩托车上摔下来躺在血泊里的那一刻所感到的孤独是同一种,或许可以称之为最高形式的孤独。那个时候,我知道周围开始有人围拢过来,人们七嘴八舌地用有限的英文问着诸如“你还好吗,小姐?”这样热心却并无实际意义的问题,我知道他们正在想办法帮我⋯⋯但所有这些都无济于事。那一刻,我只感觉到“孤独”。如果一个人没有经历过“生命也许将止于此刻”这样的危急情境,绝不可能想象得到那是一种什么样的孤独。

我试图却剖析这孤独形成的原因。我想是因为,如此接近过生与死的界限(或者仅仅是以为自己如此接近过)所产生的那种剧烈的情绪、灵魂的颤抖,是无论如何也无法诉诸语言、向他人倾诉的一种感受。你尽可以努力去搜索世间一切可用的词汇,使用一切存在的语言,但这注定是失败的尝试。你再怎么使劲,只会为自己愚笨的词不达意感到懊恼。而假如对方试图以同理心对你给予安慰,表示你的感受ta能了解,你也总会对此表示怀疑。它只属于你,也止于你。因为释放的途径的缺失,你只好守着这样一个莫名其妙的“秘密”。

我坚持必须等到身上最后一块纱布彻底地揭掉,才能将一切诉诸文字。因为我太清楚,假如体内才还残存着任何一丝由于伤痛所滋生的“自怜”,那么我所写的,都极有可能只是一点不具客观价值的呻吟。就像一个化疗着的癌症病人写的日记,无论如何强装乐观,都注定是痛苦的。

而这一刻,当我终于决心坐在电脑前,打算将这一切写下来,当我闭上眼睛,搜索着记忆,在脑中一帧一帧地回放事故的过程时,我在那么长时间里构筑起来的疏离感,顷刻便被溢出的恐惧所淹没。是的,无论我如何不愿承认,或者不敢提及,是恐惧。我被黑洞一样的恐惧吞没了,是恐惧令我在那一刻忘记按左手的刹车,忘记松掉右手的油门,忘记扭转车身的方向,忘记在那个境况中我本应该采取的一切行动,我被恐惧绑架着,放弃了挣扎,仅仅是等待着将要发生的一切。在那段时间里,我迅速地说服(其实是强迫)自己去接受一切可能的后果(如果我会死,那我就死好了,如果我会断手断脚,那世界上也只好多一个残废了)。我将一切决定权交了出去,保证自己必须服从于命运,然后,“砰!” 该发生的发生了。这个过程只有短短的几秒,却让人觉得拖得太长了。我等了一会儿,向自己确认了“我还活着”这件事,其后才轮到去感受一阵排山倒海的疼。

事情已经过去快两个月了,今天我再次强迫自己回想当时的情境,正如此前的每一次,我仍旧倒吸一口冷气,心跳直逼每分钟200下——当我试图还原现场,我也别无选择地还原了当时的恐惧。时间似乎并没有令那份恐惧有所减轻。我怀疑它能否像生命里很多其他的感觉那样,最终消逝。

我听到不少人说我经历这些的感觉是很“坚强”的,但这并不属实。事实上,我从来没有感觉自己那么脆弱过。不仅仅是身体上,更是精神上。那之后的较长时间我都在频繁地掉眼泪。有时候是因为疼,有时候就是想哭。

然而,在所有表象的深处,你可以想象我算是极其幸运的。我的四肢仍然健全,连筋骨都没有伤到,并且,在以脸朝下的姿势摔向地面的情况下,我基本没有破相。事实上,“幸运”这个词在这里都显得太轻佻了。我无意高估或低估这其中的“幸”,正如我并不希望夸大或淡化这其中的“不幸”。无论它置我于何地,承受都是我唯一能做的。

我无法确切地说出这次事故对我施与了什么样的变化。我只可以确定,这是唯一一次,我不得不向自己承认,活着之珍贵,是不可儿戏的。

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