《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。”
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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。
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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。
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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。
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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."
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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