For the memory of forgetfulness

Today last year, I received a call from the police station at work. It was said to be a household registration check, but it was actually an "interview." In more "popular" terms, it is "drinking tea". But literally, they didn't make me tea, and only gave me a bottle of mineral water within seven or eight hours, so every time I talked about "drinking tea", I always felt a little guilty, as if I was bragging.

Just the day before yesterday, a friend sent me a message saying that he hadn't been to Matters for a long time. He searched for my ID and logged out, asking what happened. In fact, I didn’t log out, I changed my name. The current name was changed after returning from the police station last year.

I was reading Under the Skin at the time, and Abrah was a slaughterhouse in the novel. But what is being slaughtered is not livestock, but humans, who are raised, slaughtered, and processed into meat like livestock.

Before today last year, I lived a very happy life in Mat City, free to write, express freely, and make friends freely. After today last year, I languished for quite some time and felt like what little freedom I had had was uprooted. It’s like those homes that were knocked on the door, locked, and forced into the homes to be disinfected during the PRC era. After that, no matter how tight the door is closed, it will not help.

I wanted to leave but couldn't bear to leave, so I kept my name anonymous.

This anonymity is nothing more than covering up one's ears. Before leaving that day, the policeman brother told me, it's okay to write about your life, travels, reading notes, don't get involved in politics, don't express your own opinions, it's okay this time, but the leaders will definitely keep an eye on you. So be careful.

The policeman was a very nice guy. He told me that many of the people he arrested became friends with him after they came out. He told me to come to him if I needed anything. He later sent me WeChat messages frequently asking me if I had written any articles recently. I said no, I was so frightened by you that I couldn’t write anything. He said, "It's so sad. I support you in writing your own stuff." On November 20, the morning of the second stay-at-home order in Chengdu, he sent a WeChat message saying that if my parents had anything to do, they could call him and he would help me coordinate.

The policeman brother is born in the 1980s. He is over 1.8 meters tall. He wears casual clothes. He is slightly fat and has a beer belly. When he is gentle, he reminds me of Kaga Kyouichiro.

The day before yesterday, 918, sirens sounded in the city. Many people in the circle of friends posted "Don't forget the national humiliation", and the timeline on Weibo was all about the first anniversary of the Guiyang bus accident. It just dawned on me that one year has passed so quickly.

I looked through my diary today and found a blank page from September 19th to 21st last year. On the 22nd, I started writing those seven or eight hours of memoirs. I wrote for four or five days, with colorful handwriting (I have several pens, which were given to me by friends in Mat City, and I often changed them) and ended up writing seven pages. But there is no time in it. This is my problem, if it is not recorded on the same day, it is easy to overlook the specific time. I went to WeChat to check the chat history with the policeman’s brother, and found out that the day of the incident was September 20, 2022.

After November 20 last year, the policeman brother never chatted with me again. I think of him occasionally. One year has passed and I don’t know if he has been promoted.

Looking at the records, the past came back to my eyes, and it was a bit shaky. I told a friend and he said you were scared to death. I'd say it's not that I'm out of my mind, it's a much more complicated feeling than that.

Whether or not to post this memorial text was a matter of considerable consideration. Later, I remembered that a friend quoted Xun Ge’s article and said: “A poet wants to write poetry, just like a flower wants to bloom, it must bloom.”

I am not a poet, nor am I a flower, but I feel that this article must be published.