Railing Codex

Director, screenwriter, and novelist. Works include the novel Riddle, long-term writing projects Memory Backtracking and Manual for Human Body Debugging, and the short film Sleepwalking. Siului’s works construct surrealist scenarios that aim to recreate one’s subjective experiences, foregrounding the concrete existence of sensual perception. Her practice is inspired partly by the mysterious treasure box that is her childhood and partly by the underground world revealed by the experience of depression.

我总是被自己闲置。在沙发或是床上，并不睡觉，或是明明刚爬起床，但是想到即将要做的、应该做的事，我便将自己平铺在某个地方上，静止着，似乎那样我才能避免世界崩塌。
我发现了，我无法第一时间去做我应该去做的事，我必须先去做别的、我不该做的，但我更乐意做的事。例如，躺着，有时我将这个行为解释为“放空想想”，我对自己说，虽然我躺着，但我在思考这个事情，于是我便好受一点。例如，在沙发上阅读，我钟爱的文字与沙发适中的支撑很快会夺走我的意识。在这一点上，躺着和阅读殊途同归。
好一点的时候，我会故意对紧急的事情视而不见，去清除浴室某个角落的污渍。这种行为逐渐蔓延到整个房子，我开始从徒手变为使用专业的工具，我全副武装，开始让屋子焕然一新。我重新摆放物品，使它们更合理；我不放过缝隙，清洁死角；我擦拭被遗忘的物品。我以这种绝对称不上浪费时间的行为去逃避我的正事，我屡屡以这种劳动掩饰，我没有做我该做的事。
我闲着，或我忙着，我做了什么，或我什么都没有做，如此度过白天，我有一种极为矛盾的安全感——我恐惧去做真正该做的事，暂时不做那些事，给我带来虚幻安全——但薄冰之下，是焦虑的汪洋。
夜晚，当他人都已入睡，我因为工作没有进展而不愿入眠。只要不睡觉，这一天便还没有结束，就还能补救，是的，我也许仍能扭转浪费了一天的局面。于是我躺在床上，没有入睡。此时“放空想想”只能让我懊悔，我是如何日复一日地没有做那些我真正该做的事。或者更糟，我会想到更多“我真正该做的事”，我想象自己轻而易举地完成了这些事，得到了自己应有的反馈。自我责备与蓄势待发两种状态在我内心中华丽登台，各不相让，我撑不了多久，为了让她们闭嘴，我只能阅读。
对，我能阅读，阅读是学习，是吸收，是进步。我插上耳机，让 AI 朗读的声音盖过我脑海的两位名角。天哪，我又开始阅读，很快，天边亮了。在该睡觉的时候，我总是不睡觉。而且我知道，当明天我又重复那一套操作时，我会谅解自己：毕竟我昨晚没有睡好。这真是一个毫无破绽的圆。
我不敢数，但是如果我勇敢一点，大概七分之六的自我在被我这样闲置。如果我没有错的话，我七分之六的能力与潜力，已经闲得发狂。我甚至无法保证，未来我会不会充分利用我自己。我病了。

I always let myself fall into disuse. I lie on my sofa or bed, refusing to sleep. Or sometimes, I did climb out of bed, but as soon as I think about the things I am about to do or supposed to do, I throw myself back into lying down, motionless, as if only by doing so can I avoid the world from collapsing. 
It has occurred to me that I simply can’t immediately start doing the things I should be doing. I must start with something else, something I shouldn’t be doing but would rather do. For example, lying down—sometimes, I justify this behavior as a process where I  “clear my mind.” I tell myself, I am lying down, but I am thinking about this thing I’m supposed to work on, so that I can feel better. For example, when I read while sitting on a sofa, the writing that I enjoy and the sofa’s perfect amount of support will quickly rob me of my consciousness. In this respect, lying down and reading arrive at the same destination.
At best, I will deliberately ignore urgent matters at hand and go clean the stains in the corner of my bathroom. The scope of cleaning gradually spreads to cover the entire apartment: I go from using my bare hands to professional cleaning tools. I am fully equipped, ready to make this place look brand new. I switch up the placements of household items for a more sensible arrangement; I leave no gap uncleaned, no corner untouched; I wipe down every forgotten object. I focus on the chore—an undeniable proof of my productivity—to avoid my real tasks. My labor often covers up the fact that I am not doing what I need to do. 
I keep myself busy, or I don’t; I accomplish something, or nothing at all. I spend my days like that, surrounded by a deeply conflicting sense of security—I dread doing what really needs to be done, and putting those off temporarily brings me an illusion of safety—but underneath this thin layer of ice lies a vast ocean of anxiety. 
By night, when the city has fallen asleep, I am unwilling to close my eyes because my work has made no progress. As long as I stay awake, the day isn’t over yet, and there is still time to make it right—yes, perhaps I can still turn a wasted day around. So I lie in my bed, not sleeping. To “clear my mind” right now will only fill my mind with regret: how, day after day, I have failed to do the things I truly should be doing. Or, even worse, I will think about more things that “I truly should be doing.” In my imagination, I complete them one by one effortlessly and receive the rightful recognition. Self-blame and self-anticipation compete to take the fictional stage in my mind, vying for attention. I can’t hold out for too long. To silence them, all I can do is read. 
Yes, I can read. Reading is learning, the absorption of knowledge; it is progress. I put on my headphones, drowning out the imaginary discord between the two actors with the voice of AI. Oh my god, I am reading again, and soon enough, dawn breaks. When I need to sleep, I always choose not to. And I know that tomorrow when I repeat this cycle, I will forgive myself: after all, I didn’t sleep well last night. What a flawless cycle. 
I dare not quantify it, but if I were a bit braver, I’d set about six-sevenths of myself aside, and let it collect dust. If I’m not mistaken, the six-sevenths of my disused ability and potential are at the verge of madness. I can’t guarantee that in the future I will use myself to the full. I’m sick. 