Some People Don't Need Self-Discipline.

Written after reading To Live Is to Shout at the Sky

Those who write poetry in the midst of suffering

are the brave, worthy of song

They don't hide behind computers

using fantasy novels or variety shows

to escape their own lives

reality left them nowhere to run long ago

Their poems

are inspiration wrung out of heavy pain, blood and tears

They don't need self-discipline

The very word self-discipline is a humblebrag

You only need self-discipline when there is temptation

Some lives

have no temptation to speak of at all

only disasters that cannot be avoided

and choosing the lighter one as best they can

They don't have to force themselves to work

because without work there is no food

They don't have to force themselves to log off and sleep early

because their exhausted bodies passed out long ago

They don't have to force themselves to exercise

because they lost their healthy bodies long ago

They don't have to schedule time to be with their parents

because both parents passed away years ago

They don't have to give up sugar

because that's the holiday present saved for the children

They don't have to go to great lengths to be on guard

because apart from their own battered bodies

they have nothing at all

They don't have to, they don't have to

They don't have to choose

And yet, they still choose

to let flowers bloom in the depths of their hearts

The late poet Xu Lizhi wrote

The paper before my eyes is faintly yellow / With a steel pen I chisel into it blacks of uneven depth / Filled with the vocabulary of migrant work / workshop, assembly line, machine, work permit, overtime, wages / They have trained me to be docile and obedient / I don't know how to shout, how to rebel / …… So many days, so many nights / I just like that, fall asleep standing.

Wu Xia, a garment-factory ironing worker, wrote in Sling Dress

The packing workshop is brightly lit / I hold the electric iron in my hand / gathering all the warmth of my hands / First I'll iron the straps flat / so they won't cut into your shoulders / …… I'll iron every pleat to the same width / so by your lake or on the lawn / waiting for the wind to blow / you can run too, but / be sure to let the hem fly up in an arc / like a flower / …… Unknown girl / I love you.

In the mine, Chen Nianxi learned that his mother had late-stage oesophageal cancer. In pain and helpless, he finally chose to "split the mountain to save his mother," and wrote Chronicle of Explosion

My tiny family / far away at the foot of Shangshan / they are ill / their bodies covered in dust / however much of my middle age I cut away / that much longer their old age can be / Inside my body are three tons of explosives / they are the fuse / Just last night / like rock / I burst apart all over the ground.

Afterword

Lately I haven't been very disciplined. The moment I hit a small problem, I feel defeated, anxious, can't sleep, and want nothing more than a good cry.

Until today, when I listened to the book To Live Is to Shout at the Sky on the Dedao app, and then, holding my breath, read about the author Chen Nianxi's life and his poems, and felt a growing mix of shame and sorrowful courage in my heart. Writing the string of ramblings above can't express even a fraction of what I feel. In the end, I can only borrow the words of Jia Xingjia:

"Before Chen Nianxi's book, I understood once again that I am worthy neither of my own good fortune nor of the suffering I have witnessed and felt."