记忆中总有曲折的山路,纵横交错,窄而长。杂草长满路旁,若是俯视,便成了一条弯弯曲曲的线。这样的路偶尔会出现在梦里,梦里还有一匹马,总是记不清颜色。我骑着马,一个人,四周寂静,我可以听见自己的呼吸在山林间回荡。这条山路是儿时我家通往外婆家的必经之路。我走了十几年,直到将自己投入都市,慢慢地接纳高楼大厦扎根在印象里;慢慢习惯了南腔北调;慢慢地习惯了霓虹灯的冷眼。可每一次穿梭于高楼之间,总会不自觉地想起那条蜿蜒的小道。 There are always tortuous mountain memories, criss-cross, narrow and long. Weeds over the roadside, if overlooking, it has become a winding line. Occasionally in such a way in a dream, there is a horse in the dream, always remember the color. I ride a horse, a person, surrounded by silence, I can hear my breath echoed in the mountains. This mountain road is the only way to go to my grandmother’s house in my childhood. I walked for more than ten years until I put myself into the city and gradually accepted the high-rise buildings rooted in the impression; slowly accustomed to the southern chamber north; slowly accustomed to the cold neon signs. Every shuttle between the tall buildings, always unconsciously think of that winding path.