《写给女儿未来的信》作者：孟伟

一封来自春秋的信，

纸张泛着木黄素的沉积，

文字已磨损成

怦然心动过后的骸骨。

于是，我把它折成纸飞机，

递给站在童年边界的你。

去吧，飞向你表达的航道。

——

时间在门框上刻录。

你抬升的标高，我逐一

备份进诗行。

而那些无法量度的相伴，

拒绝被任何语法降维——

崭新的笑容，不该磨损成

磨损的比喻。

于是我决定，用一首系统诗

来续写这封未竟的信。

我转动笔尖的滚轴，

飞墨成一行行属于我们的四维暗语——

那些一起玩过的新词焊接游戏，

是你自己发明的。

青春会把你带进死胡同，

而你会自己找到跳出墙外指令。

十年后，当你把这张纸

从旧物箱底抽出来，

沿着我折叠了十年深夜的折痕，

轻轻展开——

那只纸飞机最初的折角，

还在。

——

一封来自未来的信——

当那些陌生的隐喻

在你语言的航道里，与塔台完成验证——

我希望你只为此刻骄傲：

不是因为它准确，

而是它曾如此固执地，

用一种未被批准的语言，

爱你。

对我来说，

想截屏的童年，在一声“长大”里滑走。

English version:

A Letter to My Daughter, in a Future Tense

by Mengwei

A letter from the Spring and Autumn era,
its paper stained with lignin deposits,
its words worn down to
the bones of a heartbeat, long after.

So I fold it into a paper airplane,
hand it to you standing at the edge of childhood.
Go. Fly into the channel of your own voice.

---

Time engraves itself on the doorframe.
Each mark of your rising height, I back up,
line by line, into these poems.

So I decide: to finish this unfinished letter
in the language of system poetry.

I spin the ballpoint's axis,
ink flying into lines of our four-dimensional code—
word-welding games we played together.
You invented them yourself.

Youth will lead you into dead ends,
but you'll find your own way out,
over the wall.

Ten years from now, when you pull this paper
from the bottom of an old box,
and trace the crease where I folded
ten years of late nights,
and gently open it—

the original corner of that paper airplane,
still there.

---

A letter from a future tense—
when those strange metaphors
in the channel of your voice
complete their verification with the tower—

I hope your pride, in that moment, is only this:
not that it was accurate,
but that it loved you
so stubbornly,
in a language never approved.

For me,
the childhood I wanted to screenshot
swipes away
in a single sound: "Dad."

《乐观》作者：孟伟

时间在内存中帧移。

像耐心的进程，正逐行安抚

窗外每一片坠向大地的雪，

使其免于惊慌的登录。

这种此在的自问，是对抗熵增的

最低功耗响应。

时间在键盘上结晶。

光标犁开冰封的思绪，令其凝结、

飘散为屏前的雪。

这勇敢的筹备，清醒的坍缩，

这无目的的消散——

每一片，都是系统提交的

一份熵增报告，

亦是存在的签名。

时间在门框上刻录。

女儿抬升的标高，是它逃逸的

一组非易失性日志。

或叠进书包的夹层，

或混入早餐的碎光，

或隐于通勤变道的盲区。

而我，是那追逐的算法，

在自己编织的感知网络里，

实时抓取时间暗涌的 流量与波型。

可时间终究是影。

每一次打捞的企图，其反馈数据

都已被自身激起的涟漪 所篡改。而这篡改的行为本身，

竟成了系统生成的一份

确凿的负熵日志——

一份关于观测如何

永久扰动那

不可缓存之月的

终极日志。

English version:

Optimism

By Meng Wei

Time frame-shifts in memory.
Like a patient process, soothing line by line
each snowflake falling toward the earth outside the window,
sparing it from panicked login.
This Dasein's self-questioning is the lowest-power response
against entropy.

Time crystallizes on the keyboard.
The cursor plows through frozen thoughts, condensing them,
scattering them as snow before the screen.
This brave preparation, this sober collapse,

this purposeless dissipation—
each flake is an entropy report
submitted by the system,
and also existence's signature.

Time engraves on the doorframe.
My daughter's rising height is its escaping
set of non-volatile logs.
Folded into the lining of her schoolbag,
or mixed into the scattered light of breakfast,
or hidden in the blind spots of commuting lane changes.
And I am the algorithm in pursuit,
in the perceptual network I myself wove,
capturing in real time the flow and waveforms
of time.

But time is, after all, a shadow.
Every attempt to salvage it, its feedback data
has already been by the ripples it itself stirred.
And this act of falsify itself
has become tangibale negative entropy log
generated by the system—
an ultimate log
of how observation permanently disturbs
that uncacheable moon.

《墙内》作者：孟伟

我原以为，坐标定于

认知垂直极限的墙体顶端，

视野绝佳。 

我错了。

绝对的黑暗，从不在视程之内，

而在于墙体的裂缝之中。

可以暂忘垂直熵增，

暂忘电磁静默的热寂，

暂忘那名为想象的牢笼。

最大的囚笼，从不悬于远处。

它就在鼻息之间，

在那些衣冠楚楚的、吃人的聚会里，

藏着逻辑之外的秘密。

那，才是想象力最终的刑具。

文明，身披一袭华美的礼服，

风度翩翩。

而衬里，或许正用

人体的脂膏作润肤的霜，

用温热的血浆作养颜的露。

文明，是一枚优盘。

是系统崩溃前，仓促的备份。

是对“格式化”终极威胁，

一份绝望的、自我安慰的急救预案。

文明，才是那最后的、握有所有备份的元系统。

---

我按下保存键。

而我此刻这冰冷的指控，

也不过是这枚优盘内，

一段刚刚写入的、

用于系统自洽与危机缓冲的

—— 自我辩解日志。

English version:

Inside the Wall

by Mengwei

I thought, positioned

atop the wall of the vertical limit of cognition,

the view would be perfect.

I was wrong.

Absolute darkness is never within sight,

but in the cracks of the wall itself.

One might briefly forget vertical entropy,

forget the silent heat-death of electromagnetism,

forget the prison named imagination.

The greatest cage is never suspended in the distance.

It lies between breaths,

in those genteel, cannibalistic gatherings,

hiding secrets beyond logic.

That is the ultimate instrument of torture for imagination.

Civilization, draped in a magnificent gown,

graceful and poised.

Yet its lining, perhaps, uses

Human grease as moisturizing cream,

warm blood plasma as nourishing dew.

Civilization is a USB drive.

A hasty backup before the system crashes.

A desperate, self-soothing emergency preparedness

against the ultimate threat of "formatting."

Civilization is the final meta-system,

holding all backups.

---

I press the save key.

And this cold accusation of mine,

is merely a section within this USB drive,

a freshly written,

self-justifying log entry

for system self-consistency and crisis buffering.

《井》

作者：孟伟

井，是镇守一方清寂的载石。

它的慈悲，是恪守对喉中逆鳞永恒的缄默。

记得所有挖井人的掌纹，想念每一枚化为泉眼的老友。

而契约已烙入岩层：“锁蛟龙者，永世不可离位。”

---

我为自己，选定一口现代的井。

带着亲手搓就、浸满冷汗的逻辑之绳，

坠向一座被“绝对无用之美”的、

再无矿脉可延伸的地心城。

在盘旋的黑暗里，我迷恋这失重，

拒绝重返。危险是窦性心跳，在耳膜鼓噪。

绳语低喃：“勿惧，万有法度。”

理性在掌心震动：“爬呀，爬。”

但这血肉的锚，可经得起地核的辐射？

这孤魂的矿，能不坍缩为自身饥饿的光斑？

“既览尽幻美，何不归返人类格式的温室？”

“难道，他者不解的逻辑，定是自我指涉的牢笼？”

“而那温室豢养的一粒糖精，

何尝不是另一种匀速的坠落？”

是了。皆是坠落。

一具，委顿于易腐的肉身。

一轴，悬垂于透明的律令。

---

那么——

便将这肉身，平放于广阔的水平基准面，

任魂灵，如孤悬的探锤，

钉入个人垂直的绝对零度。

---

当年我称它为井，如今我明白

它依然是——却不仅是——井。

那是我为自己标定的首个垂直坐标系。

而所谓放平于大地，并非躺下，

是让躯壳摊开成接收一切水平回波的共振板，

去测绘万物滑动的斜率。

然而，井的谱系学揭示：

最深的图幅，从不绘制于大地经纬，

而蚀刻在心室起伏的岩壁。

那些盛满记忆盲水的井尤为恐怖：

镜面倒置的圆滑，映出脸上不断分岔

与自我辩驳的神经树突。

凝视，便能凿穿水银，抵达井底——

以水平的肉身接收，以垂直的灵魂发射。

而坐标的召唤，是一枚拒绝氧化的童年硬币。

触之，反馈低于冰点的灼热倔强。

---

而所有井的终极原型，

是那口“不存在之井”。

所谓勘探，终是向一口没有井沿的井，

递交投名状。

它专食探井者的脊骨，

因其髓内，加密着井的全套引力参数。

——那是我为自己签收的，

唯一的，也是终局的，

垂直熵增证明。

English version

. The Well

by Mengwei

A well is a stone bearing the weight of solitude.

Its mercy lies in keeping eternal silence about the scales beneath the throat.

It remembers the palm lines of every digger, misses every old friend who turned into a spring.

But the pact is seared into the rock: "He who chains the dragon shall never leave his post."

---

I chose for myself a modern well.

With a rope of logic, twisted by my own hands, soaked in cold sweat,

I descended into a city at the earth's core,

illumined by "absolutely useless beauty,"

where no veins extend further.

In the spiraling darkness, I loved this weightlessness,

refused to return. Danger throbbed like sinus rhythm in my eardrums.

The rope whispered: "Fear not, there is a law for all things."

Reason vibrated in my palm: "Climb, climb."

But can this anchor of flesh withstand the earth's core radiation?

Can this solitary spirit's mine avoid collapsing into the hungry glow of itself?

"Since you have seen all illusory beauty, why not return to the greenhouse of the human format?"

"Must the logic that others cannot comprehend necessarily be a self-referential cage?"

"And that grain of saccharin raised in the greenhouse—

isn't that also another kind of steady fall?"

Yes. All is falling.

One, collapsing into corruptible flesh.

One axis, suspended in a transparent decree.

---

Then—

let this flesh lie flat on the vast horizontal datum plane,

let the soul, like a lonely plummet,

drive itself into the absolute zero of the personal vertical.

---

Years ago I called it a well. Now I understand

it is—yet is not only—a well.

It was the first vertical coordinate system I established for myself.

And what I called lying flat on the earth is not to lie down,

but to let the body spread out like a sounding board,

receiving all horizontal echoes,

to measure the sliding slope of all things.

Yet the genealogy of the well reveals:

the deepest maps are never drawn on the earth's latitudes and longitudes,

but etched into the undulating rock walls of the ventricles.

Those wells filled with the blind water of memory are most terrifying:

their mirrored surface reflects the branching,

self-debating neural dendrites on one's face.

Gaze, and you can pierce the mercury, reach the well's bottom—

receiving horizontally with the flesh, transmitting vertically with the soul.

And the call of the coordinates is a childhood coin that refuses to oxidize.

Touch it, it returns a scorching stubbornness colder than zero.

---

And the ultimate archetype of all wells

is that "well of non-existence."

So-called exploration is finally delivering a pledge of allegiance

to a well without a rim.

It feeds exclusively on the spines of well-explorers,

for in their marrow is encrypted the complete gravitational parameters of the well.

—That is the vertical entropy proof

I signed for myself,

the only, the terminal.

---