Swallows may have gone,but there is a time of return;willow trees may have died back,but there is a time of regreening;peach blossoms may have fallen,but they will bloom again.Now,you the wise,tell me,why should our days leave us,never to return?If they had been stolen by someone,who could it be?Where could he hide them?If they had made the escape themselves,then where could they stay at the moment?
I don’’t know how many days I have been given to spend,but I do feel my hands are getting empty.Taking stock silently,I find that more than eight thousand days have already slid away from me.Like a drop of water from the point of a needle disappearing into the ocean,my days are dripping into the stream of time,soundless,traceless.Already sweat is starting on my forehead,and tears welling up in my eyes.
Those that have gone have gone for good,those to come keep coming;yet in between,how swift is the shift,in such a rush?When I get up in the morning,the slanting sun marks its presence in my small room in two or three oblongs.The sun has feet,look,he is treading on,lightly and furtively;and I am caught,blankly,in his revolution.Thus--the day flows away through the sink when I wash my hands,wears off in the bowl when I eat my meal,and passes away before my day-dreaming gaze as reflect in silence.I can feel his haste now,so I reach out my hands to hold him back,but he keeps flowing past my withholding hands.In the evening,as I lie in bed,he strides over my body,glides past my feet,in his agile way.The moment I open my eyes and meet the sun again,one whole day has gone.I bury my face in my hands and heave a sigh.But the new day begins to flash past in the sigh.
What can I do,in this bustling world,with my days flying in their escape?Nothing but to hesitate,to rush.What have I been doing in that eight-thousand-day rush,apart from hesitating?Those bygone days have been dispersed as smoke by a light wind,or evaporated as mist by the morning sun.What traces have I left behind me?Have I ever left behind any gossamer traces at all?I have come to the world,stark naked;am I to go back,in a blink,in the same stark nakedness?It is not fair though:why should I have made such a trip for nothing!
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只看楼主 我来说两句 抢板凳老婆离了,有再找的时候;孩子跑了,有回来的时候;煮熟的鸭子飞了,有飞回来的时候。但是聪明的,你告诉我,那块上好的猪肉为什么一去不复返呢?——是有人偷了它们吧:那是谁?又藏在何处呢?是它们自己燃烧结束了吧:可是猪肉自己又怎么会燃烧呢?
老婆不止一次的告诉我,一定要看好我家那旺财;但冰箱确乎就这样神奇的空了。在默默里算着,又一块猪肉已经溜去;像针尖上一滴水滴在大海里。猪肉消失在紧闭的冰箱里,没有声音,也没有影子。我和我老婆不禁汗涔涔而泪潸潸了。
消失的尽管都消失了,该出现的却都还没出现;消失的中间,又怎样地匆匆呢?早上我起床的时候,老婆就告诉我别只顾自己,也要照顾好旺财。
旺财它要吃猪肉啊,轻悄悄拿起菜篮,我就到菜市场来了。于是——逛来逛去的时候,猪肉从我挑挑剔剔的眼里飘了过去;讨价还价的时候,猪肉从我翻翻捡捡的手中蹿了过去;等到买好了,猪肉又在我并不充实的菜篮子里晃来晃去。我们觉察到猪肉的价钱越来越贵了,偷偷祈祷着上帝保佑不要再涨价时,它又在我的祈祷声中涨价了。孩子哭了,猪肉便在油锅里吱吱作响,而后进了孩子的肚子里;旺财叫了,猪肉在菜板上呻吟,而后进了旺财的肚子里。等到我和老婆饿了,这算又消失了许多。我掩着面叹息。但是刚刚买来的那块上好的猪肉又消失在我的叹息里了。
在猪肉莫名消失的日子里,在我和老婆寂静的叹息里我能做些什么呢?
只有伤心罢了,只有饿着肚子罢了;在饿着肚子的时候,除叹息之外,又剩些什么呢?丢失的猪肉如轻烟,被消失遗忘了;如神话,被传说得越来越离奇了;留着些什么痕迹呢?那些猪肉何曾留着些像游丝样的痕迹呢?屠夫们把各种来路的猪肉都扔到这菜市,转眼间它们也能像我家那块一样神奇的消失?知道它会消失,为什么便要往这里仍——干吗不去喂那些野猪野狗呢?
聪明的,告诉我,我家那块上好的猪肉为什么一去不复返呢?
朱自清《匆匆》之.com版
股票跌了,有再涨的时候;工作没了,有再找的时候;老婆跑了,有再娶的时候。但是聪明的,你告诉我,我们的风险融资为什么一去不复返呢?——是有人偷了他们吧:那是谁?又藏在何处呢?是它们自己燃烧结束了吧:可是燃烧在了哪里呢?
CEO不知道他们给了多少钱;但银行帐面确乎是渐渐空虚了。在默默里算着,几千万已经溜去;像针尖上一滴水滴在大海里。金钱烧在网站的火里,没有声音,也没有影子。我们这些打工的不禁头涔涔而泪潸潸了。
该烧的尽管都烧了,该来的却都没有来;燃烧的中间,又怎样地匆匆呢?早上我上班的时候,公司来了很多要求我们做广告的媒体。广告他要钱啊,轻轻悄悄地拿了支票;我也茫茫然跟着起哄。于是——开会的时候,金钱从CEO要我们往前PUSH的手势上蹿了过去;编商务流程的时候,金钱从天花乱坠里飘了过去;痛苦加班时,便从没有报酬的劳动中飞过去。我们觉察金钱去的匆匆了,偷偷祈祷着上帝保佑不要倒闭时,他又从祈祷着的手边过去,网站发布时,我坐在角落,他便伶伶俐俐地从我们面前跨过,从记者们弱智的提问中飞去了。等我听着老总们说白日梦话,这算又烧去了好多。我掩着面叹息。但是新来的燃烧又开始在叹息里冒火花了。
在燃烧中疯狂的日子里,在千门万户的倒闭里的我能做些什么呢?只有挠墙罢了,只有跳槽罢了;在泡沫吹吹灭灭的跳槽里,除挠墙外,又剩些什么呢?烧过的金钱如轻烟,被倒闭遗忘了,如神话,被新开张的网站吹大了;留着些什么痕迹呢?那些金钱何曾留着像游丝样的痕迹呢?投资者把各种来路的金钱扔到这网络,转眼间也就和什么都没发生一样?但不能平的,为什么偏要往这里扔——干吗不去做慈善、炒股、赌博呢……
你聪明的,告诉我,我们的金钱为什么一去不复返呢?
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