迷狂——輕紗舞風

他举起电话，说了声“再见”，告诉穆雷自己明天不会来上班了，倾听了一会儿，将听筒挂上，然后盯着铃声直响的话机。

太阳从西边升起，人们正走回汽车去上班。

他读了天气预报，接着是头版头条，然后将晚报折起放回了门厅。

这是他发作时间最长的一次，不过他并不真的在乎。他平静地看着白天过去，时间到了早上。

越接近黎明，宿醉的不适感就越强烈。爬上床的时候，他难受极了。

前一天晚上，他又带着一身醉意醒来。他重新灌满两瓶酒，塞上木塞，封好瓶口，知道自己一会儿会把这些酒退回卖酒的铺子。

那天的白天，他一直坐在那儿，倒着看着书，不时吐些酒，或咒骂几句。他知道新车正被运回底特律，拆成零件；而世界各地的牧师们念诵着安魂弥撒，浑然不觉尸体正在醒来，开始感受临死时的痛苦。

他想笑一笑，但却无法让自己的嘴巴这样做。

他又吸出了两包半香烟。

接着又是一次宿醉，他爬上床。不久，太阳从东方落下。

时光的车轮飞速地从他面前驶过。他打开门，和前来安慰的人说了声“再见”。这些人走进来、坐下，劝他不要过度悲伤。

他终于知道要发生什么了，心里开始无泪的哭泣。

虽然他是在发疯，但仍然感到了痛苦。

……痛苦，随着时光的倒流。

……倒流，是那么无情。

……无情，直到他意识到那个时刻就要到来了。

他在心里咬紧了牙关。

他的悲伤，他的仇恨，他的爱，都是如此刻骨铭心。

他穿上黑色的丧服，一杯杯地吐出喝下的酒。人们正把泥土刮到铲子上去，这此铲子将用来挖开坟墓。

他将小车倒回灵堂，停好。爬上大型轿车。

他们回到墓园。

他站在朋友中，听着牧师的祈祷。

“。土归土，尘归尘”牧师念道，其实这和正常的说法没什么差别。

人们将棺材抬上灵车，运回灵堂。

他耐着性子听完安魂弥撒，回到家。刮出胡子，刷脏牙，上床睡觉。

一觉醒来，他重新穿上黑色的丧服，回到灵堂。

鲜花都摆放在老地方。

神情庄重的友人将各自的名字从名册上抹去，握了握他的手，接着走进来坐了一会儿，凝视着合上的棺材，然后离开，直到陪伴他的只有葬礼的殡仪师。

不久殡仪师也走了，留下他一个人。

眼泪滑上他的脸颊。

褶皱从他的衬衫和西装上消失了。

他回到家，脱下衣服，梳乱头发，时间是早晨，他上床度过另一个夜晚。

前一天晚上，他醒来的时候意识到自己正被带往何方。

有两次，他聚集起自己全部的意志力试图中断这倒流的进程。他失败了。

他想到了死。如果那天他选择了自杀，现在就不会被迫再一次回到那痛苦的时刻。

他意识到离那个时刻已不到二十四小时了，眼泪在心中流了下来。

他退掉棺材、墓穴和其他殡葬服务。而与此同时，过去正一步步向他逼近。

接着他回到家，陷入平生最厉害的一次宿醉，爬上床直到醒来，开始一杯杯地吐酒，然后前往停尸房，又及时地回到了家，挂上电话听筒。那个电话的铃声……

……粉碎了他无声的愤怒。

她死了。

她正躺在90号州际公路上的汽车残骸中。

他踱着步，抽着烟，知道她躺在那儿，正不停地流血。

……接着濒临死亡，撞车时车速达到了每小时80英里。

……接着活了过来。

接着车子恢复原状，伤口愈合消失，她活了过来，站了起来，而且此时正驾车飞快地行驶在回家的路上，好在他俩最后一次争吵后再重重地把门关上，然后两个再扯着嗓子互相叫嚷。

他在心中大声地哭泣着，他的灵魂痛苦的绞起了双手。

倒流绝不能现在停止，不，不是现在。

他所有的悲痛、爱和自我仇恨已经将他带回了这么远的地方，如此接近那个时刻……

……绝不能现在停止。

过了一会儿，他走到客厅，双脚踱着步，嘴里咒骂着，而心里却在等待。

 

门“砰”的打开了。

她盯着他，眼泪弄糊了睫毛膏。

“！吧去狱地到走就那”他说。

“！了走要真我”她说。

她迈进房间，关上门。

她匆忙地将外套挂进门厅的衣柜。

“。想么怎你随”他耸耸肩。

“！乎在不都谁已自你了除你”她喊道。

“！气子孩真你”他说。

“！起不对声说以可少至你”

透过视野中的粉色雪花，他看到她的眼中闪烁着翡翠的颜色，显得楚楚动人。他在心里禁不住高兴地跳起舞来。

挽回过去的时候到了。

“你至少可以说声对不起！”

“对不起！”他紧紧的握住她的手，让她无法挣脱，“你永远不会知道我有多抱歉。”

“到这儿来。”

她投入他的怀中。

不厚道啊，死抢还是2楼！

“……我是那？步止疑惊星行的上天使以可，句辞的恸哀的人个一哪……”

原来这句要反过来读,,,,,,

地下室也要抢占!
写得不错,很有深度!
其实两人相处,
有时候一方稍微退让一点,
就不会那么容易产生矛盾!
吵架有时侯是增加点情趣,
但相敬如宾不是更好吗?!

好长哦

有时有事去遐想

在为什么而迷狂

你带走我的青春和热情

了无牵挂

留给我刻骨铭心的感伤

连绵悠长

                         ————陈宁《了“舞”牵挂》

好长啊~~~~~~~

支持雯雯
长了点

不错，人往往在失去后才懂得珍惜。

国外的作品,很不错,原文如下

Roger Zelazny. Divine Madness

     "...  I  IS  THIS _<и>?hearers wounded-wonder like stand them makes and
stars wandering the conjures sorrow of phrase Whose. . ."_
     He blew smoke through the cigarette and it grew longer.
     He glanced at the  clock  and  realized  that  its  hands  were  moving
backwards.
     The clock told him it was 10:33, going on 10:32 in the P.M.
     Then  came the thing like despair, for he knew there was not a thing he
could do about it. He was trapped, moving in reverse through the sequence of
actions past. Somehow, he had missed the warning.
     Usually,  there  was  a  prism-effect,  a  flash  of  pink  static,   a
drowsiness, then a moment of heightened perception...
     He  turned the pages, from left to right, his eyes retracing their path
back along the lines.
     _<и>"?emphasis an such bears grief whose he is What"_
     Helpless, there behind his eyes, he watched his body perform.
     The cigarette had reached its full length. He clicked on  the  lighter,
which  sucked  away  its glowing point, and then he shook the cigarette back
into the pack.
     He yawned in reverse: first an exhalation, then an inhalation.
     It wasn't real--the doctor had told him. It  was  grief  and  epilepsy,
meeting to form an unusual syndrome.
     He'd  already had the seizure. The dialantin wasn't helping. This was a
post-traumatic locomotor hallucination, elicited by anxiety, precipitated by
the attack.
     But he did not believe it,  could  not  believe  it--not  after  twenty
minutes  had  gone  by,  in the other direction--not after he had placed the
book upon the reading stand, stood, walked backward across the room  to  his
closet, hung up his robe, redressed himself in the same shirts and slacks he
had  worn all day, backed over to the bar and regurgitated a Martini, sip by
cooling sip, until the glass was filled to the brim and not a drop spilled.
     There was an impending taste of olive, and then everything was  changed
again.
     The  second-hand  was  sweeping  around  his  wristwatch  in the proper
direction.
     The time was 10:07.
     He felt free to move as he wished.
     He redrank his Martini.
     Now, if he would be true to the pattern, he would change into his  robe
and try to read. Instead, he mixed another drink.
     Now the sequence would not occur.
     Now  the  things  would not happen as he thought they had happened, and
un-happened.
     Now everything was different.
     All of which went to prove it had all been an hallucination.
     Even the notion that it had taken twenty-six minutes each  way  was  an
attempted rationalization.
     Nothing had happened.

     ...Shouldn't be drinking, he decided. It might bring on a seizure.
     He laughed.
     Crazy, though, the whole thing...
     Remembering, he drank.

     In the morning he skipped breakfast, as usual, noted that it would soon
stop being  morning,  took two aspirins, a lukewarm shower, a cup of coffee,
and a walk.
     The park, the fountain, the children with their boats, the  grass,  the
pond,  he  hated them; and the morning, and the sunlight, and the blue moats
around the towering clouds.
     Hating, he sat there. And remembering.
     If he was on the verge of a crackup, he  decided,  then  the  thing  he
wanted  most was to plunge ahead into it, not to totter halfway out, halfway
in.
     He remembered why.
     But it was clear, so clear,  the  morning,  and  everything  crisp  and
distinct  and  burning  with the green fires of spring, there in the sign of
the Ram, April.
     He watched the winds pile up the remains of winter against the far gray
fence, and he saw them push the boats across the pond, to come  to  rest  in
shallow mud the children tracked.
     The  fountain  jetted  its  cold umbrella above the green-tinged copper
dolphins. The sun ignited it whenever he moved his head.  The  wind  rumpled
it.
     Clustered on the concrete, birds pecked at part of a candy bar stuck to
a red wrapper.
     Kites  swayed on their tails, nosed downward, rose again, as youngsters
tugged at invisible strings. Telephone lines were tangled with wooden frames
and torn paper, like broken G clefs and smeared glissandos.
     He hated the telephone lines, the kites, the children, the birds.
     Most of all, though, he hated himself.
     How does a man undo that which has been done? He doesn't. There  is  no
way  under  the  sun.  He  may  suffer,  remember, repeat, curse, or forget.
Nothing else. The past, in this sense, is inevitable.
     A woman walked past. He did not look up in time to see  her  face,  but
the  dusky  blonde fall of her hair to her collar and the swell of her sure,
sheer-netted legs below the black hem of her coat  and  above  the  matching
click  of  her  heels  heigh-ho,  stopped  his breath behind his stomach and
snared his eyes in the wizard-weft of her walking and her posture  and  some
more, like a rhyme to the last of his thoughts.

     He  half-rose  from the bench when the pink static struck his eyeballs,
and the fountain became a volcano spouting rainbows.
     The world was frozen and served up to him under a glass.
     ...The woman passed back before him and he looked down too soon to  see
her face.
     The  hell  was beginning once more, he realized, as the backward-flying
birds passed before.
     He gave himself up to it. Let it keep him until he broke, until he  was
all used up and there was nothing left.
     He waited, there on the bench, watching the slivey toves be brillig, as
the fountain  sucked  its  waters  back  within itself, drawing them up in a
great arc above the unmoving dolphins, and the boats raced backward over the
pond, and the fence divested itself of stray scraps of paper, as  the  birds
replaced the candy bar within the red wrapper, bit by crunchy bit.
     His  thoughts  only were inviolate, his body belonged to the retreating
tide.
     Eventually, he rose and strolled backwards out of the park.
     On the street a boy backed past him, unwhistling snatches of a  popular
song.
     He  backed  up  the stairs to his apartment, his hangover growing worse
again, undrank his coffee, unshowered, unswallowed  his  aspirins,  and  got
into bed, feeling awful.
     Let this be it, he decided.
     A  faintly-remembered  nightmare ran in reverse though his mind, giving
it an undeserved happy ending.

     It was dark when he awakened.
     He was very drunk.
     He backed over to the bar and began spitting out his drinks, one by one
into the same glass he had used the night before, and pouring them from  the
glass  back  into  the bottles again. Separating the gin and vermouth was no
trick at all. The liquids leapt into the air as he held the uncorked bottles
above the bar.
     And he grew less and less drunk as this went on.
     Then he stood before an early Martini and it  was  10:07  in  the  P.M.
There,  within  the  hallucination, he wondered about another hallucination.
Would time loop-the-loop, forward  and  then  backward  again,  through  his
previous seizure?
     No.
     It was as though it had not happened, had never been.
     He continued on back through the evening, undoing things.
     He  raised  the telephone, said "good-bye", untold Murray that he would
not be coming to work again tomorrow, listened a moment, recradled the phone
and looked at it as it rang.
     The sun came up in the west and people were backing their cars to work.
     He read the weather report and the headlines, folded the evening  paper
and placed it out in the hall.
     It was the longest seizure he had ever had, but he did not really care.
He settled himself down within it and watched as the day unwound itself back
to morning.
     His hangover returned as the day grew smaller, and it was terrible when
he got into bed again.
     When he awakened the previous evening the drunkenness was high upon him
again.  Two of the bottles he refilled, recorked, resealed. He knew he would
take them to the liquor store soon and get his money back.
     As he sat there that day, his mouth uncursing and  undrinking  and  his
eyes unreading, he knew that new cars were being shipped back to Detroit and
disassembled,  that corpses were awakening into their death-throes, and that
priests the world over were saying black mass, unknowing.
     He wanted to chuckle, but he could not tell his mouth to do it.
     He unsmoked two and a half packs of cigarettes.
     Then came another hangover and he went to bed. Later, the  sun  set  in
the east.

     Time's  winged  chariot  fled before him as he opened the door and said
"good-bye" to his comforters and they came in and sat down and told him  not
to grieve overmuch.
     And he wept without tears as he realized what was to come.
     Despite his madness, he hurt.
     ...Hurt, as the days rolled backward.
     ...Backward, inexorably.
     ...Inexorably, until he knew the time was near at hand.
     He gnashed the teeth of his mind.
     Great was his grief and his hate and his love.

     He  was  wearing his black suit and undrinking drink after drink, while
somewhere the men were scraping the clay back onto the shovels  which  would
be used to undig the grave.
     He  backed  his  car to the funeral parlor, parked it, and climbed into
the limousine.
     They backed all the way to the graveyard.
     He stood among his friends and listened to the preacher.
     ".dust to dust; ashes to Ashes," the man said, which is pretty much the
same whichever way you say it.
     The casket was taken back to the hearse and  returned  to  the  funeral
parlor.
     He sat through the service and went home and unshaved and unbrushed his
teeth and went to bed.
     He awakened and dressed again in black and returned to the parlor.
     The flowers were all back in place.
     Solemn-faced  friends  unsigned the Sympathy Book and unshook his hand.
Then they went inside to sit awhile and stare at  the  closed  casket.  Then
they left, until he was alone with the funeral director.
     Then he was alone with himself.
     The tears ran up his cheeks.
     His shirt and suit were crisp and unwrinkled again.
     He  backed home, undressed, uncombed his hair. The day collapsed around
him into morning, and he returned to bed to unsleep another night.

     The previous evening, when  he  awakened,  he  realized  where  he  was
headed.
     Twice,  he exerted all of his will power in an attempt to interrupt the
sequence of events. He failed.
     He wanted to die. If he had killed himself that day, he  would  not  be
headed back toward it now.
     There were tears within his mind as he realized the past which lay less
than twenty-four hours before him.
     The  past  stalked  him that day as he unnegotiated the purchase of the
casket, the vault, the accessories.
     Then he headed home into the biggest hangover of all and slept until he
was awakened to undrink drink after drink and then return to the morgue  and
come back in time to hang up the telephone on that call, that call which had
come to break...
     ...The silence of his anger with its ringing.
     She was dead.
     She  was  lying  somewhere in the fragments of her car on Interstate 90
now.
     As he paced, unsmoking, he knew she was lying there bleeding.
     ...Then dying, after that crash at 80 miles an hour.
     ...Then alive?
     Then re-formed, along with the car, and alive again, arisen?  Even  now
backing home at terrible speed, to re-slam the door on their final argument?
To unscream at him and to be unscreamed at?
     He cried out within his mind. He wrung the hands of his spirit.
     It couldn't stop at this point. No. Not now.
     All  his grief and his love and his self-hate had brought him back this
far, this near to the moment...
     It _<и>couldn't_ end now.
     After a time, he moved to the living room, his legs  pacing,  his  lips
cursing, himself waiting.

     The door slammed open.
     She stared at him, her mascara smeared, tears upon her cheeks.
     "!hell to go Then," he said.
     "!going I'm," she said.
     She stepped back inside, closed the door.
     She hung her coat hurriedly in the hall closet.
     ".it about feel you way the that's If," he said shrugging.
     "!yourself but anybody about care don't You," she said.
     "!child a like behaving You're," he said.
     "!sorry you're say least at could You"
     Her  eyes  flashed  like  emeralds through the pink static, and she was
lovely and alive again. In his mind he was dancing.
     The change came.
     "You could at least say you're sorry!"
     "I am," he said, taking her hand in a grip that she  could  not  break.
"How much, you'll never know."

     "Come here," and she did.