Leisure

 　　My younger brother pulled a hairpin from my hair and carefully opened a newly arrived monthly magazine. After glancing at the table of contents, he rolled it up, held it in his hand, and laughed, saying, "Ying-ge, you've been so quiet all year!"

　　I pondered, then smiled slightly in response.

　　Yes, too quiet! Yet I couldn't, nor would I, steal a moment of leisure amidst my busy schedule; unnaturally, artificially, I wrote something with the purpose of social obligations.

　　The god of illness, merciful to me, granted me the most leisurely and tranquil seven days.

　　Except for the time spent taking medicine several times a day, which was bitter, I felt constantly immersed in a gentle pleasure. —The courtyard was silent. The mat and pillows were cool. Warm sunlight filtered through the reed curtains, shining on the pale yellow walls. Dense tree shadows swayed gently in the breeze. Birds chirped intermittently outside the window. At this moment, everything in the world seemed to have been abandoned and isolated; the room itself was a universe, and the shadows of flowers and the sounds of trees all contained profound truths. It was the most precious time of the year, but alas, it was only seven days!

　　As dusk fell, my younger brother returned, and the music broke the stillness. A dark green silk cloth draped over the lamp, casting a chill over the room, like a scene from a tragedy. Reflecting my delicate white dress in the mirror, I felt a strange sense of ethereal mystery. Then, the four-stringed zither in the corner of the room trembled, its notes hesitant and slow. Two voices, initially different, gradually merged into one. From melodious to gentle, from high-pitched to low, I, lost in thought, felt an overwhelming sense of melancholy and unease.

　　The children were so lovely; they secretly came in my sleep, left a few bouquets of flowers, and then left. My little brother took some, put them in a vase, and secretly placed them on the bedside table while I slept. ——— I glimpsed them when I opened my eyes: yellow and white, nameless little flowers, against a pale green vase… They weren't very fragrant, but each flower contained the essence of innocent friendship.

　　Resting all day, the boundary between sleep and wakefulness becomes blurred. Sometimes in the middle of the night, I feel a profound sense of fulfillment. — I hear the sudden thunder mingled with the light rain, and each flash of lightning illuminates the forsythia on the windowsill, casting a pale, clear image onto the curtains before quickly fading away. Yet, the lingering shadow remains vividly imprinted on my mind. I see a pale ink painting of "nature" for the first time.

　　With permission, I go out for a stroll at dusk. A cool breeze washes over me. With slow, deliberate steps, I feel weak, yet within this weakness lies an indescribable joy. This scene is just like when I was a child on a ship at sea — I don't remember it at all, my mother told me — everyone else was seasick, but I alone ignored it, stumbling up to the deck to look at the sea.

　　As I gazed intently, I would sometimes feel myself turn and fall onto the deck, finding it novel and amusing. Each time I sat down, I would laugh uncontrollably, then get up again, hoping to fall down once more. More than ten years have passed in a flash, and my desire not to find pleasure in weakness remains unchanged.

　　A friend wrote to comfort me, saying, "Dongbo said, 'Being able to relax due to illness is not so bad.' I myself have been prone to illness throughout my life, so I know that being able to relax is truly a great skill and a profound learning..."

　　Being able to relax due to illness is my greatest joy.