Into Torture Porn


Photo taken in Little Yellow Mountain, Guangdong – 2015.10.

Sorry, I have been away for so long. Having finished the first draft of In Between, the Goddamned Book, my second English novel, was a triumph in March, a personal history.

Less Than Mystery, the Fucking Book hangs my life between something and nothing. But this Goddamned Book has confidently lifted me up to a state of fearlessness. I feel taller than I am. I feel time is a revolver pointing at my back. I can’t stop the torrents of overwhelming thoughts of writing my third English novel while editing the second. Because I feel the need and must record what has been happening over the year and what is happening now. Because I may die if I don’t.

The horror of being nothing and nothingness is of dismemberment, of decay. Yet the faith of the ultimate lifestyle is art and the world is getting better never fades but only grows stronger as I write more.

And the extremes of this horror and this faith have dramatically pushed me into torture porn.

It is a feeling, an overcome feeling. The first torture porn I’ve “conquered” is Hostel, a splatter film, which, personally, means to splatter your soul with blood. Using the word “conquer” is not an exaggeration. For it took me nine years to finish the movie. It was disturbing and frustrating that I had to turn away every time when facing a bloody scene, like I couldn’t even look at my own blood when having a blood test. Why? What exactly was I afraid of?

It was a fear of dying with the intense redness of blood, which slowly consumed me till 2016. In the end, I found that the only way to overcome this fear was a philosophy. People make great profits out of torture porn like Hostel, because it is commercially successful. The blood is unreal, the act of killing is in fact a “mockumentary”, and the death fake. Go and feel pools of blood. Feel the fat thickness of gore. Feel the devil’s insanity. Feel yourself. You may suffer from trauma, but it is temporary. You are real and alive. Your feelings are strong. But you are the master of yourself, not a slave.

Therefore, torture porn has become the hands of a surgeon and a temptation.

And excuse me, I have to retreat again now.


Yesterday Was A Drama

Strangely yesterday I asked myself, how many Yesterdays have I had so far and how many do I remember? Thus, it seems too many to count and too few to remember. Then I tracked it down to my personal diary. There was one day written in 2013. And the mood of that day was as complicated as yesterday.

It says: Oct.25, 2013

Yesterday, a dramatic woman made an odd day. All the way to the market, all the way home and all day long, she covered her mouth with a hand, laughing and crying with smiles yet without tears, feeling like going to marry tomorrow, acting like the secret of American Dream.

Reading through each word, it seemed as if what happened on that day just happened now. The noises from the market, the faces in the crowds, the aimless footsteps on the way home, the broken laughter and the crying smiles, the hungry eyes and the wandering mind, the complex power of the deep inside waves – all these images were still vivid as a dear heart. And yesterday, there was no fewer dear moments than that day. In the morning, I posted a moment of my mind:

After all these days of building a blog and creating some material for the site, I feel my mind floating high and feverishly, my feet walking on the water, my heart rumbling violently, my passion lying restlessly to the mess, the anger, the pain, and even now my period bleeding abnormally.

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