"What can be said at all can be said clearly, and what we cannot talk about we must pass over in silence."
—Ludwig Wittgenstein
"凡是可说的东西，都可以明白地说，凡是不可说的东西，则必须对之沉默。" ——路德维希·维特根斯坦
As a kid, there was a forbidden game: pull a half-burnt stick from the fire and scribble all over the courtyard wall.
小时候有一种不被允许的游戏，从火堆里抽出一根木棍，戳着围墙乱涂乱画。
The charred wood worked like a black crayon, drawing crooked curves and straight lines. Some parts almost looked like something; most were pure nonsense—just a messy tangle that meant nothing.
烧过的木棍如黑粉笔，歪歪斜斜勾勒一些曲线、直线。有些地方像点模样，有些纯属胡闹，结果往往只是一团混乱的线条，什么也体现不出。
In the end, you’d get chased by the owner, waving a rattan switch and cursing. Ask the kid why he did it? Because it was fun. And fun? He couldn't explain.
最终引来的是被屋主随手操起藤条，骂骂咧咧追着跑。你问孩子为什么要乱涂画？好玩是什么，说不清楚。
In the office, we keep fish—big ones, small ones—paddling, eating, sleeping, over and over. Lately, two arowanas died, each several times larger than the little fish.
办公室里养着一些鱼，大大小小在划水、吃料、睡觉，周而复始。最近死了两条龙鱼，其身形大过其他小鱼好几倍。
Ask them why they have to paddle, eat, sleep—also unexplainable. If they paddle too hard, like those two did, they damage their insides and die.
你问它们为什么得划水、吃料、睡觉，这也说不清。倘若划动得激烈，如那两条龙鱼那般，伤了内脏，还会大命不保。
A tank dozens of centimeters long is plenty for the tiny ones, but cramped for fish over ten centimeters.
几十公分长的鱼缸对小不点来说，是足够了，而对于十几公分的龙鱼来说，就显得有些局促。
If you asked the dead pair whether they regretted all that thrashing around? They couldn't say. Revive them, and they'd probably thrash just the same.
要是问那死去的两条龙鱼，后不后悔曾经太折腾？
它们说不清楚，大概率复活它们哥俩，到头来还是会很折腾。
After dinner, I like drinking a bottle of lactose-free milk. The preference isn't up to me—genes decided I'm lactose intolerant and that regular milk gives me the runs.
晚上吃完饭，我喜欢喝一瓶无乳糖牛奶。这喜好不由我决定，基因决定我乳糖不耐受，决定我讨厌喝其他牛奶的窜稀。
Or an idle afternoon: watch some porn and jerk off—also outside my control. Visual stimulus hits, sperm takes over the brain, no exceptions.
如下午无所事事，看过毛片就撸一管，这也不在控制范围。视觉受了刺激，精虫就会上脑，似乎无一次例外。
By experience, I ought to be someone who loves self-discipline. Yet I quite enjoy those unambitious afternoons.
按经验来说，我应该是很喜欢自我管束的一类人。实际上，我又挺享受毫无上进的下午。
Jerk off, doze, smoke a cigarette, find something to eat, wonder why I have no drive, lie down and watch a movie, avoid complicated code, keep hating social media, turn off the light for a shower, take out three bags of trash, scrub the toilet until it shines, wait for Lingzi to send me perfume.
撸管，困顿，抽支烟，找点吃，疑惑怎么没有冲劲，躺下看会电影，不想琢磨复杂的代码，持续厌恶社交媒体，关灯洗澡，收拾出三袋垃圾，把马桶刷得铮亮，等待灵子给我寄来香水。
I carry out all these details, yet still can't explain why. Much of what we do isn't ruled by conscious mind.
我执行这一切细节，然而仍说不清楚为什么。很多行为不受显意识所支配。
Now and then, I write about life, much like that kid scribbling on the wall.
现在我时不时书写生活，就如开头提及屁孩乱涂的那般景象。
Life’s stick burns inch by inch, turning to carbon and ash. On time’s vast wall, we try to leave marks, yet manage only crude sketches. At first, the lines stand out. Then wind, rain, years, months—peeling, mottled, faded—until even we forget what we drew.
生命的木棍燃烧起来，一寸一寸地化碳成灰。在时间的巨墙上尝试留一些记录，却也涂画不出像样的图景。起初，痕迹显眼。后来，风来雨去年深月久，脱落、斑驳、暗淡，连自己也忘记那时画的是什么。
It comes at a cost either way. Good or bad drawing, reality swings its big stick and chases you shouting.
同样是有代价的，画得好坏与否，都会被现实挥起大棒叫喊着追。
For a kid, it’s just play—angry glares, a lesson, a few lashes at most, and it’s over.
屁孩贪玩嘛，就是怒目圆睁教训再无下次，多则几鞭皮肉之苦，这事就过去了。
But life won't allow that. It keeps reigniting the urge to pick up the stick and scribble again.
但是生活不行，得不安分，一次次重新燃气涂画生活的欲望。
Why won't it allow it? I can't say. Anyway, the urge always flares up again.
为什么不行？我说不清楚，反正总是一次次重燃。
Under the moon, sometimes near, sometimes far, the tides fall and rise.
在与月亮忽远忽近之中，潮落潮起。