他们彼此深信,
                                                                是瞬间迸发的热情让他们相遇,
                                                                这样的相遇是美丽的,
                                                                但变换无常更为美丽。
                                   ——摘自辛波丝卡(Wislawa Szymborska)"love at first sight"

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人生总有许多的巧合,两条平行线也可能会……有交汇的一天。
人生总有许多的意外,握在手里的风筝也会……突然断了线。

几年前,我的一个大学同学,看电影回来后,在宿舍楼道里,大声且激动地:“《向左走向右走》很好看!”
当时我也看了开头,可是,当听到梁咏琪用本就不很纯熟的普通话很用力地念那首《一见钟情》,且将“迸发”念做“并发”,我就再也没耐心看下去。

昨晚本打算电影与小说并进,但是忍笑听完“并发”之后,我却再也没翻过一页书。

原来是这样的啊。

我从不拿着稿件到喷水池旁边修改,那样很危险;为了怕纸被吹跑,我一定会用东西压住它;上海没有那么安静的公园,不可能让你安静地发呆;公园里也不会有那么可爱的小孩和狗狗;整个城市脏乱吵闹,到处都是人。

所以,不会遇到我可能喜欢的人跳进喷水池替我救稿子,一起在公园草地上晾干它们,读诗,谈音乐,如果真的有,他想起我时所念的将会是“  根据权利要求1或2所述的废气净化催化剂,其中所述第一金属氧化物载体是二氧化铈,所述第二金属氧化物载体是氧化铝或氧化锆,并且所述贵金属是铂。”诸如此类;而因为怕冷以及老年时生关节炎,我秋天起就很少穿裙子,所以学音乐的人不会对我感兴趣。(即使穿,也不会吧……);在公园里静坐时,也一定会有化妆品小姐和你搭讪,衣着潦草头发乱蓬蓬的女人(在装吉普赛女郎吗?)会拦住你说小姐你看上去很烦恼我来帮你算命,你说不用了我想一个人静一静,这些搞传销的骗钱的女人仍会絮絮叨叨地跟着你;还会有或猥琐或老朽的男人用奇异的眼神看着你,好象一个长着肉脸的女生就不可以独自来公园装文艺青年……

哦,你看。这个城市就是如此不堪。我也总是在看了浪漫的电影后,才会相信,我也一定会有美好的爱情,一定会。文艺,向来是我避世的场所。这个社会,已经让如我这般爱幻想的无可救药的浪漫主义者,表现出来的都是现实。就像现在,原本想用诗一样的语言,写一篇诗一样的观后感,可是,我又开始批判了……

然而,可是,我当然希望,会有一见钟情。只是纯粹的吸引与靠近,而不是托七大姑八大姨打听到的邻家女孩芳龄几何可否生育月薪几何嫁妆几多然后盘算此女能否让自己少奋斗几十年最不济也要和自己一起养房子,她要赚得多吃得少不花钱要给自己洗衣烧饭做牛做马上床娱乐,如若不从立马劈腿,女人如衣服有什么舍不得。

这些都不是我所要的。绝对不是。

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一见钟情

他们彼此深信,
是瞬间迸发的热情让他们相遇,
这样的相遇是美丽的,
但变换无常更为美丽。

他们素未谋面,
所以他们确定彼此并无任何瓜葛,
但是自街道、楼梯、大堂传来的话语,
他们也许擦肩而过一百万次了吧?

  我想问他们是否记得,
在旋转门面对面那一刹,
或是在人群中喃喃道出的“对不起”,
或是在电话的另一端道出的“打错了”。

但是我早知道答案,
是的,他们并不记得。

他们会很讶异,
原来缘分已经戏弄他们多年。

  时机尚未成熟,
变成他们的命运,
缘分将他们推进、趋离,
阻挡他们的去路,
忍住笑声,然后闪到一旁。

确曾有过标志和记号,
尽管他们并不知晓。
也许是在三年以前,
或者是在上星期二,
有一片树叶从这个人肩上落到另一个人的肩上?
或者是一件丢失而又拾回的东西?
说不定它是灌木丛中童年是玩过的一只皮球?
也许是门把手和铃铛,
他们早先曾经触摸过它们。
也许他们的箱子曾在寄存处放在一起,
也许在同一个晚上,
他们曾做过同样的梦,
惊醒之后便无影无踪。

然而每一个开端都有它的继续
而那本记事本永远是半开半合

Love at First Sight

They're both convinced
that a sudden passion joined them.
Such certainty is beautiful,
but uncertainty is more beautiful still

Since they'd never met before, they're sure
that there'd been nothing between them.
But what's the word from the streets, staircases, hallways—
perhaps they've passed each other a million times?

I want to ask them
if they don't remember—
a moment face to face
in some revolving door?
perhaps a "sorry" muttered in a crowd?
a curt "wrong number" caught in the receiver?

but I know the answer.
No, they don't remember

They'd be amazed to hear
that Chance has been toying with them
now for years. 

Not quite ready yet
to become their Destiny,
it pushed them close, drove them apart,
it barred their path,
stifling a laugh,
and then leaped aside.

There were signs and signals,
even if they couldn't read them yet.
Perhaps three years ago
or just last Tuesday
a certain leaf fluttered
from one shoulder to another?

Something was dropped and then picked up.

Who knows, maybe the ball that vanished
into childhood's thicket?
There were doorknobs and doorbells
where one touch had covered another
beforehand.
Suitcases checked and standing side by side.
One night, perhaps, the same dream,
grown hazy by morning.

Every beginning
is only a sequel, after all,
and the book of events
is always open halfway through.