The word on the glass英语散文

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　　Writing is to hold back things that are going to leave anyway.So I used to write about flowers in spring,before the night they were going to wither,and I wrote about rain in autumn, though it never comes back from the darkness.

The word on the glass英语散文

　　Anger.Happiness.Surprise.Sorrow.Disappointment.Passion.I’m always trying to keep them with me,and I always fail.It took me years to understand,that I could never keep some feelings which are only supposed to live for seconds forever with me,that I can take nothing back from time,that instant is longer than ever.

　　But I am still writing.For me, and for every moment.Before I write,I already know the answer,but I can never refuse to start because of the fear of the endings.

　　Sinpolo.Just the word, Sinpolo.A nonsense word that means nothing.

　　A word printed on the glass door of the shower room, probably the name of the brand of the glass or the design of the glass door.A “Chinglish” word created by one of the factories which wanted to follow the fashion trend of adding an English name for their brand.A fashionable brand name, even without the original Chinese name beside it.

　　It was not large or an obvious color,but it was right up there.As long as I lifted my head up,I could see it,and it was also the only point I could stare at.Sometimes the iron curtain outside the window was open,and I could clearly see how light went through the glass door and reflected on the water stains,and how “Sinpolo” took the sunshine,absorbed its color,and created its own image on the wall.Sometimes there's no light,so I just looked up into the dark city through the glass,and the word showed up,with a fluorescence in my mind.I enjoyed playing with the lights,using my hand to interrupt them from their original route,using my phone to rearrange them,or just putting my hands under them and observing how lines on my palm were like mountains with shadows.

　　During those years in that house,I did two things most frequently:argued with my father,and read meaningless novels.I argued with my father fiercely every week,for things I can't even remember now,and,as a result,I cried often.Most times,I didn't mean to,but maybe my tears had their own considerations.There was nothing worth my tears,I thought,so I rushed to the bathroom whenever this happened--no,not my own room,because I wanted neither my bed,my desk or my books to see me cry, nor did I want to remind myself of the arguments whenever I sat in front of my desk.

　　At this point,I should have been grateful for Sinpolo,of watching a boring and repeated teenager doing exactly the same thing for thousands of times.Sometimes we stared at each other;I saw the river outside the building I lived in through it,but I didn't know what it saw through me.On some occasions,at midnight,after finishing another novel full of bullshit,I went to the bathroom,still like a walking dead,with my soul sucked inside the book.Then I saw the words,or I should say then we saw each other,and I came back.

　　When I stared at it,I called its name in my mind.sin'pore,this is how I usually called it,but maybe it's wrong, maybe it should be sinpore, or sinpore, or just shengbaoluo,its Chinese pronunciation.I did feel sad for it,as its name actually meant something like saint,holy Polo,but the factory made it as Sin Polo.Did they ever know what they were doing?Or maybe they knew,and this was what exactly they wanted.I didn't think it’s very possible though.

　　But I called it my way anyway,when I wanted to calm myself down,especially when I wanted to stop myself from wasting H2O,I would silently read it for one thousand times in that moment,and amazingly,it would wipe out all strange thoughts,and I could have a blank brain to add some other things into.I knew I was thinking too much every day.Sometimes even when I was doing homework,the rain outside would flow through the window and onto my face.Then I lifted my head up,staring at one point in the void,and that voice of Sinpolo appeared,fixing my leak of emotions as usual.

　　This was not good,I would say.I was relying on it.If my mom could open up my head as the mother in Peter Pan does,she would find out that the word was occupying half of my brain.

　　After leaving the house,I used to ask my mom about it.“Do you remember the bathroom of our last house?” “Yes, ”my mother answered,with a curious look on her face,“then what?” “Do you still remember Sinpolo?” “No? What's that?” “It's the brand of the glass door in the bathroom.” “No, what's special about it?”“Well, nothing. ”

　　I felt tired in the middle of the conversation,and suddenly didn't want to share my feelings with her any more.I could tell my mother thought I acted strangely,but this was because that by then she didn't realize,and not did I by then,which kind of person was in front of her.This person was one of those least responsible ones among the crowd,those who were born to be too lazy to think,but still too eager to show off,those who had no intentions of targeting against anything so also had no intentions of knowing any,those who had extraordinary ability of senses like infants,and those who felt no sense of mission for it.

　　This person is not ready to take responsibility over her emotions now,and the word will take care of her and restrain her,until that day comes.

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