Lonely nights, rain knocking on the window ledge, depression lingering, nostalgic feelings break out of the air in the spring permafrost, wrapped around the ancient trees that have been towering for many years, growing and spreading.
A changing old street, a broken house that will fall, a familiar scene, things are not human, there are always a few sighs, a few more sorrows, so, hidden in the bottom of the heart, small beauty, a little touched, love and hate, sweet and bitter, happy and painful, inadvertently, gently cross the fingertips, in the rainy season faintly grateful.
Pick up a fallen leaf and make a bookmark. Count the meridians of the years and look for the imprints of youth. The yellowed tubes have also had fresh juice gushing through, and there have also been pulsating lush greenery. The leaves fall and dance, like the flow of water for years, life is a lifetime, grass and trees are autumn. The dried-up life has since had nothing to do with the greenery of the branches of the coming year. Scrolling the scrolls of words, can you find the horn you play on the millennium stage? Can the pulse of the quasi-menstrual year just to prescribe a pair of current medicines, nostalgic feelings, become the agent of today's healing?
Take a handful of clear water and sweep away the dust of the years in your heart. The road of life is dusty and thorny. Right and wrong, at ease. The positive and oblique sides of the road can only be seen clearly in the retrospective, and the right and wrong of the line are only discerned between the feelings. Examining the mistakes of the past and repenting of the hurt is nothing less than a beauty. Only by washing the mind clean can the windows of the mind see the road ahead.
Bury a broken flower, bury an unsuccessful relationship. Although the flowers that died early failed, the chaotic soil could not hide the brilliance of the past, the wilted petals also released warmth, and the beak of the hummingbird witnessed the warmth of the bud core. Try to search for ignorant love in memory, that piece of innocent feelings that are not contaminated with worldly distractions, make a thousand assumptions about "because" in the beginning, and see if the result of "so" makes any difference. Feel the torment of heartache, endure the rain of tears, in the depths of the soul, and continue the broken edge.
Play an old song and find the enthusiasm of the past. A familiar old song in the ear, time suddenly reversed, back to that unique era, your bookish spirit, strong morale, can you accelerate your tired and weak heartbeat? Can your passionate words, your pointing out the country and the mountains, and the arrogance of the dung and the ten thousand households of the hou in those years arouse the chivalrous righteousness and courage that you have been sleeping for many years and drowning in the red dust of Que Mo? Muddy air, the need for a refreshing cold wind to be ruthlessly swept away, but, a high-spirited old song, can it awaken your memory?
Pan a leaf flat boat, wandering in the river of time, the tree against the turbulence, along the road to sow the big net of dreams. Who doesn't want to capture the hope of a good harvest? Who cares about the beautiful scenery on both sides of the strait? How many things, never urgent, the heavens and the earth turn, time is pressing, ten thousand years is too long, only to fight for the day.
Standing in the cold autumn wind, it seems to come and go, hurried crowds, who is willing to stop their footsteps and see the road they have walked? Wind and fire, searching, trying to have everything. Unfortunately, the never satisfied person, at the same time as the new, the old, is also quietly annihilated in the red dust, until they suddenly look back, only to find the beauty of the past. Why not anchor in a harbor and salvage the past that has shone in the quicksand over the years, so as not to repeat today's lost in tomorrow's days?!
A yellowed photograph, frozen in an indelible memory; a moving old song, echoing an indelible pride; a decaying lotus, sending an unsolvable love knot.
Write a paragraph of text, the memories of the bits on the paper, not to escape from reality, not to avoid the confusion in front of the eyes, not to anesthetize yourself for the pain of the past, just to pursue the beauty of the past, to live more concretely for tomorrow!