一朵向日葵的语录

   每个人都有生活的权利，就像阳光总是均匀地洒满大地。

           ——一朵向日葵的语录

　　我开始注意，那个男人每天都要背一个大夹子，用一根短短的木杆在上面涂涂写写。我看过，他画的是妈妈和我的姐妹们。

　　妈妈的确很美，一片片花瓣在阳光下恣意地舒展着，像跃动的生命火舌。可是我，只是一杆瘦小的向日葵，隐匿在姐妹们的巨大花盘下。

　　我索性低下头，暗绿色的枝干细得就像钻来钻去的蚯蚓。花瓣小小的，似乎一触就会簌簌地落下来，我打量着自己，厌恶极了。

　　哼，什么“法国巴尔勒的阳光温暖”，它从未温暖过我；什么“如火般炽热的生命”，不属于我！

　　那个男人依然在画，他画得好极了，可是人们都说他是个疯子。他深褐色的头发凌乱地蜷曲着，乱草似的堆在头上，可一双蓝色的眼睛却闪着无比坚毅的光芒。

　　我忍不住探头望去——他衣衫褴褛，安静地画着。那个夹子毛毛刺刺的，各种污垢黏在上面。可是他看起来那么神圣、安详。他和我像两个极端，唯一相同的只是我们都是各自世界里的多余罢了。嗯……或许只有我吧。

　　他每天都来画画，我也总是在这时舒头探望。那些画好极了，就像天上的太阳一样。

　　可是，今天他不仅带上他的夹子，还带来一只黑色的盒子，蓝色的眼中噙满了忧郁。他站在田畔上，展开画，看了一遍，又摸了一遍，静静将它放回夹子中，哦，那算不上夹子，只是两块破旧的木板。

　　他抬起右手，将黑色的盒子抵在脑袋上，“砰”一声巨响，他倒下了。

　　他鲜红的血汩汩地流着，我惊恐地瞪大眼睛。此刻，我仿佛又看见他一直微笑着、涂画着，那双蓝色的眼睛涌动着太阳般的光泽，艺术的火花像火一样燃烧着了他的生命。

　　可是……

　　路过的人们说：“听说梵高死了。就是那个疯子，整天站在向日葵边画画的，被生活逼得自杀了。”就在他为艺术而倾倒的那一刻，我在他的画夹中看见了我——那个在夹缝中拼命生长的我，那个噙满泪水、向着阳光的我。

英语翻译；

Everyone has the right to live, just like the sun always spreads evenly on the earth.

           ——Quotations from a sunflower

　　 I started to notice that the man had to carry a big clip every day and use a short wooden pole to scribble on it. I have seen that he painted my mother and my sisters.

　　 Mom is indeed very beautiful, the petals stretched freely in the sun, like a pulsating tongue of life. But I, just a thin sunflower, concealed under the huge flower disk of my sisters.

　　 I simply lowered my head, the dark green branches were as thin as earthworms digging around. The petals are small, and they seem to fall rustlingly when touched. I looked at myself and I was disgusted.

　　 Hum, what "the warmth of the sun in Baalle, France", it has never warmed me; what "hot life like a fire" does not belong to me!

　　 That man is still painting, he painted very well, but people say he is a lunatic. His dark brown hair curled up messy and piled on top of his head like a mess, but his blue eyes were shining with incomparable determination.

　　 I can't help but look at it—he is in ragged clothes and is painting quietly. The clip has burrs, and all kinds of dirt are stuck on it. But he looked so sacred and serene. He and I are like two extremes, the only thing in common is that we are all superfluous in our respective worlds. Hmm... maybe it's just me.

　　 He comes to paint every day, and I always look around at this time. Those paintings are great, just like the sun in the sky.

　　 But, today he not only brought his clip, but also a black box with melancholy in his blue eyes. He stood on the bank of the field, unfolded the painting, looked at it again, touched it again, and quietly put it back in the clip, oh, that's not a clip, it's just two old wooden boards.

　　 He raised his right hand and put the black box against his head. With a loud "bang", he fell.

　　 His bright red blood was gurgling, and my eyes widened in horror. At this moment, I seem to see him smiling and painting all the time, his blue eyes are surging with the sun-like luster, and the sparks of art are burning his life like fire.

　　 But...

People passing by said: "I heard that Van Gogh was dead. It was the lunatic who stood by the sunflower all day and was forced to commit suicide." At the moment he fell for art, I was in his I saw me in the picture clip—the me who was growing desperately in the cracks, the me who was full of tears and facing the sun.