Through the sound of you

Who are we in the house? Host, title holder, guest, passerby, or bystander?

Neither. In such a crazy buying era, we are just the red-eyed grandson and son of the house, and the behemoth that controls our life fate and consumes most of our efforts, we are no longer the piggy and puppy that squint to nap under the "home", but the "body" on the "room" that wants to jump, with a little residual body temperature. On top of an impassable house.

I always miss my youth in the country. At that time, the house was built brick by brick by parents and masons. We did not need to go around to compare the choices of expensive land, nor did we need to wait for affordable housing in order to queue up for the Spring Festival train ticket to return home, with bedding and bedding, and lived several nights. But also beware of someone using the back door, or cutting in line, a few words of discord, they will tear up. The ramming men sing songs, and the foundation is as strong as the steel wall, and the wall teachers pass the bricks, as if throwing up a corn or potato, between throwing and connecting, there is a beautiful arc and dynamic melody. The men bellowed and paused to banter with the women in the yard who helped mix the cement and plaster, and the children ran around like the wind, bouncing up and down like balls in a bright, tolerant house. Passing villagers will stand for a moment to help the owners imagine a better life after the house is built, and give their effective suggestions on the layout of the room.

When every house was built, everyone would go to the "hot pot", men and women, young and old, crowded the noisy courtyard. When dinner is short of tables, chairs and benches, the women of the neighbors pass them over through the wall. Until it is dark, I have never seen every family lock the door, and there will be no security door to watch people in the cat's eye. When men and women quarrel, the neighbors always run to break it up. In the window, you can see the clothes of a woman drying behind, and the old cow comes back from a walk outside, smiles at you, and strolls back to the cow pen. On the walls chickens crow, ducks roost, sparrows swish from here to there, swallows chirp about how to make their nests as strong and warm as those of their owners.

In a country where the sound of dogs barks from the east to the west, house and home are the same concept. No one will make a big fight for whose name is on the house title certificate, and even quarrel to divorce, women who marry men will regard this courtyard and the cats and dogs in the courtyard as their home for life, and they are willing to guard it, knitting sweaters, cooking porridge, waiting for the men to come back from the fields. Women will not fight for the ownership of the house, really can not live, go to their own peach garden to build a hut, and then raise a big dog, as usual live freely. And men will not domineering the house for their own, for women to marry over, did not pay a down payment on the house, or did not buy a brick, and in the quarrel when haggling. Because in the hearts of men, a woman is not married to the house, but to him.

In today's cities, women are not willing to easily marry men without a house, and men also have to measure whether a woman's family is willing to take out half of the down payment for this house, or pay it together with him. The house is a ring that women wear on their fingers, no temperature, just to show off in front of people or to satisfy the growing vanity of material desire. Desire is always endless, we are like a gluttonous child, eating in the bowl, looking at the plate, but also greedy thinking of the pot. The house is no longer a warm home with a light on late at night, but a sleepy grave, if one day you do not open your eyes, then it is the cold coffin in which we are buried.

On the left side of the news, men, women and children are frantically buying houses, and on the right, insignificant human deaths in mining disasters, earthquakes, floods and gun battles. The living who are crowded with the face distortion of the queue to buy a house will never think that if they encounter an earthquake tomorrow, then the house that is fighting to the death may have just lived in it collapsed and buried themselves mercilessly.

No one thinks about what happens after death. Rich people want to live in luxurious villas, even if they pay for a "ghost town" without the smell of fireworks. Young men without money struggle to squeeze the last drop of their fathers' blood out of them. And when we went crazy, it was just the real estate guys laughing behind the back of the house.

At last we became the grandsons of the house, bowing down to it and praying for the warmth of home there. However, the monster made of cement, but in our crazy Shouting, never said a word.

Words scattered around abstracts and journals, like homeless children, being turned around. I found on the Internet, calling to receive samples and royalties, crossing a long telephone line, and adopting a strange editor dialogue with my text, often, from a few words, you can see a person's expression, and hidden under a text in the ups and downs of the heart.

Call an obscure digest magazine, the hour hand is just arrived at the end of the hour, imagine everyone is packing things, put on a coat, waiting to take the bus, or buy fresh vegetables. There were people clamoring to eat the newly opened salted duck, or the Sichuan restaurant around the corner. When the office is a beaming liberation of the relaxed and pleasant, so at this time the phone came, it does not matter, pick up, careless can also be understood. However, the middle-aged man who talked with me, in a clamor, did not wait for me to finish my purpose, then crackling opened fire on me, said, also do not look at the time, we are off work, but also call! The tone is full of boredom and anger, it sounds like a certain organ unit, the future is not proud of the old officer, the career is crowded out by people, so it will be a cavity nowhere to vent the resentment, all dumped in the daily with small things to disturb him.

I in his such a reprimand, like a schoolboy who has done something wrong, only, with a pretend calm, light back to him, sorry, I didn't know you are off duty now. The man a hard stone hit my cotton, feel uncomfortable, and a sharp voice, debt also have to watch it, tomorrow hit you! Did not wait for me to deal with a "thank you", there will be a clap to hang up, only a monotonous blind sound, toot toot to remind my ears, the opposite person, already with anger, burned off the line, so there is no need to vain, to the meager remuneration.

There is a small newspaper in the north, after the telephone description of the purpose of the connection, the middle-aged woman, immediately with a sharp voice coldly said, we never pay! The tone was unequivocal and non-negotiable. Encounter many journals that tell the author that he has no remuneration, but most of the words are cowardly, the tone is gentle, afraid of accidentally hitting the perpetrator, not afraid of thousands of difficulties, the magazine is brought to court, so it is still spiritual comfort. However, it is the first time to encounter such a righteous and vigorous journal.

Being egged on by curiosity and ridicule, I suddenly increased my courage and bluntly put on the table the issue of royalties that had been mentioned by us in the past and asked her, Why don't you pay royalties to the author of the article? Have you been doing it for free all along? The middle-aged woman is also on the strength, the tone is more and more tough, it seems that I began to show signs of arrogance, to force down. It is still the sentence pattern just now, but with a new word, it becomes a wayward sentence when a child is vexatious: We just don't pay!

I finally smiled after this sentence, and then took out the usual tolerance, back to her, then do not send it, thank you. The middle-aged woman is lazy to deal with my generosity, even "um" also refused to give, then hung up the phone. In the echo, I imagined that the woman, when there is a cold heart, has been used to people like me to collect debts, so that you have trained a steel bone, let you ten thousand arrows through, also hurt her slightest flesh.

There are also reserved people, not angry, not indifferent, only step by step, according to your instructions and requirements, like a decent, said to help you write down the contact information, and then mail the remuneration to you. However, he could not see his movements, but in his voice, he revealed all the secrets. A long address, every time you have not finished, he has been eager to give a "good" word, always make you suspect, used to read ten lines of text editor, write the word, is also a brisk pace, a first-class stenographer standards. And, without waiting for you to say your name, he will boldly throw you a word, and we will do it at once. I am always afraid of his embarrassment, Xiao said, but you have not written down my real name, mail the fee, I am afraid it is not very convenient. The secret at that end, like a child without a good belt, was caught by a person, and a gentle pull revealed a small sum of money hidden inside.

Such "good faith" deception, when you hang up the phone, you already know in your heart that you do not have to wait for such a serious commitment, that the expected green manuscript bill will not hit the road to find you.

The world is full of all kinds of deception, and those who have given the world with spiritual food of the text, many times, but can become a best coat, put on, we seem to have a noble halo. However, when we put on new clothes, we often forget that the body can cover, but the voice, it is our expression and the heart, exposed at a glance.

7 years old little cousin, love of beauty, not only with people than the abundance of candy, the number of painting books, the beauty of clothes, but also always in front of the mirror, like a model put a cold and cool attitude, and go to the door of the people compete. Everyone gave in to her, did not care about her beauty and ugliness, let her stand in front of the mirror for a moment, the next or their own most beautiful conclusion, proud to go.