"My Encounter with the Temple of Earth" is a profound confession unfolding under the shadow of death. After losing his legs, he frequently visits the desolate Temple of Earth, contemplating the meaning of death. To him, death is not merely an endpoint but an inescapable existence—it may come at any moment, yet its inevitability gives life a certain solemnity. Reading this article evokes a calm clarity: death is not an enemy to be denied but a companion to be understood. It is precisely because life is finite that we become particularly sensitive to time, love, and every moment.
Loneliness is the underlying tone throughout the piece. The desolation of the Temple of Earth resonates with his inner self, as he engages in continuous self-dialogue in solitude. Loneliness sometimes feels like an abyss, confronting one with nothingness; yet, it also provides a space for reflection, compelling one to question, "Who am I? Where do I come from, and where am I going?" Perhaps loneliness is the norm of life; it is not a punishment but a necessary course of growth.
Through repeated contemplation of death and loneliness, the meaning of life gradually emerges. Shi Tiesheng realizes that meaning is not a divine gift but something to be sought amidst pain and adversity. The figure of his mother, the flora of the Temple of Earth, and the fleeting warmth between people all constitute the fulcrum of his understanding of life. The meaning of life is not a grand slogan but is hidden in the details of daily existence. Even with physical limitations, one can still find value in existence through thinking, writing, loving, and being loved.
Lazy Dog merely collects those sentences that move me, organizing them into "quotations," both as a record and as a dialogue with myself.
My Encounter with the Temple of Earth#
Many things in the world are hard to speak of. You can complain about why God brings so much suffering to this world, and you can strive to eliminate various sufferings, enjoying the nobility and pride that comes with it, but if you think a little further, you will fall into deep confusion: if there were no suffering in the world, could the world still exist? Without dullness, what glory would wit have? Without ugliness, how could beauty maintain its fortune? Without the vile and the base, how would kindness and nobility define themselves and become virtues?
When it comes to fate, there is no discussion of fairness. So, where is the path to redemption for all unfortunate fates? If wisdom or enlightenment can lead us to find the path of redemption, can everyone attain such wisdom and enlightenment?
I often think that it is the ugly woman who creates the beautiful one. I often think it is the fool who brings forth the wise. I often think it is the coward who highlights the hero. I often think it is all beings who enlighten the Buddha.
A person's true name is: desire.
However, some things are only suitable for collection. They cannot be spoken of, nor can they be thought of, yet they cannot be forgotten. They cannot become language; once they become language, they are no longer what they are. They are a hazy warmth and solitude, a mature hope and despair; their territory is only two places: the heart and the grave.
I clearly hear it ringing in the past, ringing in the present, ringing in the future, swirling and lingering through the ages.
But the sun, it is both the setting sun and the rising sun at every moment. When it extinguishes and descends the mountain to gather the desolate afterglow, it is simultaneously burning on the other side, climbing the mountain peak to spread its brilliant morning light. On that day, I too will quietly descend the mountain, leaning on my cane. One day, in some valley, a joyful child will inevitably come running, holding his toy. Of course, that is not me. But is that not me? But the sun, it is both the setting sun and the rising sun at every moment. When it extinguishes and descends the mountain to gather the desolate afterglow, it is simultaneously burning on the other side, climbing the mountain peak to spread its brilliant morning light.
The universe, with its unending desire, transforms a song and dance into eternity. What name this desire has in the human realm can be disregarded.
When I Was Twenty-One#
That shadow will long sway in my heart, bringing happiness and pain to future days, especially passion, guiding a desperate life out of the valley of death; whether happiness or pain will become eternal treasures and sacred memories.
But I believe in the paradise of the world; there truly is such a source. If not, perhaps no one would want to live anymore; if this source sometimes weakens, in my view, at least ridicule cannot make it strong. For thousands of years, it has existed as reality and as belief, continuously. It flows from the heart and back into the heart, it is given to the heart and is due to the heart, thus it continues. If one wishes for it to be strong, what else can one seek but the sincerity of the heart?
The Sweet Gum Tree#
Sometimes a person just wants to be alone and quiet for a while. Sadness can also be an enjoyment.
One day that child will grow up, will remember the things of childhood, will remember those swaying shadows of trees, will remember his own mother. He will run to see that tree. But he will not know who planted that tree or how it was planted.
Autumn Memories#
It is autumn again; my sister pushed me to Beihai to see the chrysanthemums. The yellow flowers are elegant, the white flowers are pure, the purple-red flowers are passionate and deep, blooming profusely in the autumn breeze. I understand the words my mother did not finish. My sister understands too. We are together, and we must live well...
Short Notes Under the Wall#
Some things that seemed unimportant at the time can take root in memory for a long time. They have always been there, sleeping, occasionally waking up, opening their eyes to see you busy (promoted or escaping the world) and then falling back asleep; for many years they seemed as light as if they were not there. After countless missed opportunities, one day I see them again, seeing how time has worn away many so-called major life events, while they steadfastly remain there, heavy with immeasurable weight.
In fact, secrets have already become walls. The belly and eyelids are walls, fake smiles and false cries are walls; because such walls are deemed soft and tiring, one needs to create some solid and durable ones to reinforce them. Even if this wall of the mind can be easily dismantled, mountains and rivers are walls, heaven and earth are walls, time and space are walls, fate is an infinite limitation, and God's secrets are endless walls. If one truly wants to dismantle this wall of secrets, although it seems like a long-held ideal is nearing realization, just wait and see, the whole earth may soon echo with the sound of snoring due to the loss of interest, and one may not even know where to begin with the dreams.
Interest is crucial and very important. Secrets must be well preserved. The desire to explore must eventually reach the wall of meaning.
For example, love can be temporarily diverted by material desires, but I do not believe it can be extinguished because of that.
Therefore, there must be a kind of weight for which you are willing to live and die, willing to be burdened, willing to exhaust your life under its gravity. It is not a forced declaration of no regrets; it is a clear acceptance of fate.
Do not extinguish the desire that breaks through the wall; otherwise, the snoring will begin again. But accept the wall.
Accept imperfection. Accept suffering. Accept the existence of walls. Crying and shouting are all attempts to escape it; anger and cursing are also attempts to escape it; flattery and worship still seek to escape it.
Between the silent wall and the silent me, wildflowers swell with buds, endless paths extend between endless walls, there are many things to slowly discuss with it, casually noting them down is called writing.
Song of the Yellow Earth#
The singing of humanity probably originates like this. Or rather, all art originates like this. A hard life needs hope, vibrant life needs love, countless days and countless thoughts all need to be expressed.
But God must not have created life according to law; it is likely created according to love.
A person can only sing the song he believes to be sincere, which is limited by his personality and history. Even if a person sincerely hopes to understand everyone, it is impossible. The history of one generation is different from that of another; this is the eternal guarantee of generational gaps.
Any act of interfering with others' love based on one's own views is merely a current against the flow.
My Dream#
Humans cannot compete with God; but human strength, will, and beauty can be fully displayed in that running and jumping, and that is where its charm lies.
Good Luck Design#
Since it is a dream, why not let it be perfect? Why must even dreams be so restrained and humble?
Without pain and hardship, you cannot strongly feel happiness.
The sense of happiness cannot be given all at once; it is hard to calculate how long a single sense of happiness can last, but the days are certainly longer than it. The longer days will always rely on it. Therefore, you cannot lose distance; you cannot be without new hopes and pursuits. If you momentarily lose distance, you momentarily lose the path; if you momentarily lose hope and pursuit, you momentarily lose interest and vitality. In that case, we will inevitably lose all our efforts, and that shadow will not miss the opportunity to entangle you with boredom, monotony, annoyance, and numbness, thus burying our "good luck design."
Despair, when death arrives, this despair is so genuine that you do not even have the chance to consider how to deal with it.
The meaning of life lies in your ability to create the beauty and brilliance of this process; the value of life lies in your ability to calmly and excitedly appreciate the beauty and grandeur of this process.
Memory and Impression 1#
Regarding the past, what I can write is only my memory and impression. I have no intention of tracing historical facts. I do not know where to trace to finally reach historical facts; wherever I trace, it is nothing but memory and impression.
The beginning of life is the most mysterious, a complete creation from nothing. Suddenly, without any sign, you enter a situation, one situation leads to another, seamlessly connecting to create a real world.
Stepping out of the door and into the yard, a real world begins to provide evidence. The scent of flowers and grass warmed by the sun, the scent of bricks warmed by the sun, sunlight dancing and flowing in the wind. The cross path paved with blue bricks connects the houses on all sides, dividing the yard into four equal pieces of land, with a jujube tree on each of the two pieces, and the other two pieces filled with passion fruit. The passion fruit blooms with large flowers, bees buzzing in and out among the overlapping petals, buzzing and harvesting. Butterflies float leisurely, flying back and forth, silently like phantoms. The shadows of the trees fall under the jujube tree, scattered with tiny jujube flowers. The yellowish jujube flowers cover the green moss like a layer of powder, very slippery, so one must be careful when stepping on it. In the sky, or perhaps in the clouds, there are some sounds, some ethereal sounds whose source is unknown—wind sounds? Bell sounds? Or singing? It is unclear; for a long time, I did not know what that sound was, but as soon as I walked under that blue sky, I heard it, even in the cradle, I had already heard it. That sound is clear, joyful, and floating, neither hurried nor slow, as if it is the inherent call of life, insisting that you pay attention to it, seek it, visit it, or even rush to it.
Life and death depend only on observation, on the distance of observation.
Time limits us, habits limit us, the rumor-like public opinion traps us in reality, making us dare not act recklessly in the magic of daylight. Daylight is a kind of magic, a spell that allows rigid rules to run rampant, allowing reality to wear away the miraculous. Everyone plays tense and rigid roles under the magic of daylight; all speech and behavior, all thoughts and dreams seem to be defined by a pre-set program.
What I yearn for is only this free night journey, to the heartfelt place of all souls.
The wind passes through the woods, carrying away the cheerful chirping of sparrows and gray magpies. The bell sounds steady, melodious, and floating, connecting the evening glow with the new moon, extending to the depths of the sky or the ends of the earth...
A person's homeland is not limited to a specific piece of land but is an infinitely vast feeling, unbound by space and time; once this feeling is awakened, you have already returned to your homeland.
This trembling is a kind of narration, like a fable that can extend into all deep places, unexpectedly shocking people. This trembling is the most expansive sound, like the flow of night, never ceasing.
It seems to be condensed by many silent souls, recommended by all the wishes that have been obliterated. Thus, that delicate finger, having experienced the vicissitudes of life, always interweaves and trembles in my hair, asking me what the stories of this world are, and who is in those stories?
Everything exists because of words, yet words can also be silence.
History thus becomes questionable. Following different emotions, history is originally uncertain.
History is inevitably a royal classic; literature must compensate for it, so it values those silent souls. History tends to order by time, sketching the reality in space, while art is not satisfied with such simplification, so it seeks to observe the complexities deep within this human drama, in places generally overlooked, to inquire about unique streams of consciousness.
In the depths of silence, both joy and sorrow exist, vividly. That is because what is silent is not universal; rather, the unique stream of consciousness has been simplified into silence by a universal text.
Perhaps any sound, light, shape, posture, even temperature and breath, has an innate response in the human heart; thus, many things can be unknown yet known, unclear yet forever remembered. That is perhaps the power of form. Atmosphere or emotion, coming as a whole, they are greater than words, entering a realm beyond words.
Between the ugly and weak person and the perfect deity lies the eternal path of the believer.
This shore is always incomplete; otherwise, the other shore would collapse.
The era without temples has ended. Following that, another era has arrived, vigorous and fiery.
Memory and Impression 2#
Every moment of history has countless historical branches extending, and infinite time stretching. We are born alone; countless histories and infinite time become fragments due to fragmentation. The mutually buried streams of consciousness pray in solitude, gaze from the broken places, hoping for a reunion in dreams. Memory, therefore, is a cage. Impression is the sky outside the cage.
Who says I have not died? Before birth, the sun has risen and set countless times, the long time has been devoured by the long void and returned in the name of my birthday.
In the afternoon, if the sunlight is quiet, can you hear where the past has gone? At the forefront of light, or at the extreme of thought, in the existence neglected by time, life and death are one.
The body has no forbidden zones. But the forbidden fruit is no longer there.
Hope and prayer. Hesitation and waiting. Until the long summer, fiery and intense.
"This is the entirety of that love story."
In that abandoned ancient garden, go listen; everywhere is a love story. At that desolate altar, go think, placing all the love stories from ancient times to the present there; this is the entirety of this love story."This love story seems to be a tragedy?"
"You are talking about marriage; love has no tragedy."
For the lover, how could love be a tragedy? For spring, is autumn its tragedy?
"What is the ending?"
"Waiting."
"And then?"
"There is no and then."
"Or rather, what is the result of waiting?"
"Waiting is the result."
"Then, is it not a tragedy?"
"No, it is autumn."
Summer is coming to an end. The sunlight quietly enters the room, and all the shadows moving with it seem to fall into memories. At that time, far away, at the edge of the northern sky, in a place so abstract it is almost unreachable, if you listen carefully, there are some extremely subtle movements seemingly standing in a row, pulling apart a line, buzzing and eager to try; that is the initial autumn wind, the autumn wind is setting off.
Everything is sparse, and the view is desolate. The strong body is covered with traces of history, the innate talent smells the breath of death, and thus the soul emerges, desire returns to dreams.
I am the secret language you have forgotten. You are the evidence I have lost.
Until death. Until dust buries time, and time seals the waves of the past.
Do you want spring to also listen to the autumn wind? Do you want young boys and girls to also visit death? No, they have just awakened from there. God wants them to cross the river of forgetfulness to reshape a season and reaffirm a journey. They arrive as scheduled. They must stir up spring with their enthusiasm, with their flamboyance, and their wildness, and then experience one of countless summers, experience the exuberance of life, the instinctive urging, the torment of love, and the talent that is helpless due to the boundary of that physical body! Hoping that at the end of the long summer, they can hear the autumn wind.
Walking towards his inevitable grave. Wrapped in autumn wind, walking towards the fields, seeing the golden rice, hearing the ripe fruits fall with a thud, smelling the vast sunflower fields stirring up waves of fragrant wind. Worshiping the seasons; how many lives have withered in spring, how many have exhausted their talents in the long summer, or have extinguished in the familiar neglect due to injuries. Worshiping the starry sky; the living and the dead will gather there, forming eternal messages.
Missing the Temple of Earth#
Weakness is the unique belief of the lover.
But what if "love" is also noisy, "beauty" is also flamboyant, and "sincerity" becomes a fashionable advertisement? Only weakness is the recognition of love's willingness, just as giving up is the antidote to noise. Once a person lives, they must be flamboyant; this is the nature of such an animal.
Rotary Club Inquiry (Preface)#
This unfamiliar place is merely a landscape, an encounter in the journey of the soul; the future path remains an infinite question.