Memoirs on paper

My mood could not be calmed for a long time.

Walking on the road of my hometown, through the busy streets and crowds of people, I found an old man with tattoos! Hey, when I was a kid, people of this age had tattoos.

As soon as you reach the entrance of the village, you will be greeted by the gray and blackened pole pillar: it is covered with moss, and there are many depressions and scratches -- the small advertisements posted on it have disappeared, and even the paint has fallen off. I stretched out my hand and groped, and the wheel of memory began to spin, freeze, and play, which is unforgettable in this life - I once rode a bicycle with care, trying to swim around the village, but I didn't expect to start here.

Entering the "village hall" of the village, the radio hanging high has long been withdrawn, and every morning there will be no more exciting and majestic national anthem to wake me up; there will be no more advertisements for so-and-so eyes; I will no longer take the bench out at dinner time while listening to the radio and listening to the adults talking.

I wonder, why don't a single child come out to play? Kids like to hide in their homes and tinker with those "high-tech"? I think I ran around with a few friends: broke the water pipe of this house, broke the window of that house, and pulled out the vegetables grown by so-and-so. It's still very exciting to think about now, and childhood has gone farther and farther with the wheel of time. Looking at it now, I guess those children go down to the fields and don't even know what rice is!

Walking into the house, it is no longer a home - the original gorgeous and exquisite wood carvings have long been decayed, the bright decorations have long been dimmed, and the whole house is full of a musty smell. Walking into a room with a dilapidated boiler inside, I can vaguely remember that it was the kitchen. Lo and behold, the ancestral copper spatula still stands on the stove. The foot of the cupboard was gnawed off the boss piece, and it fell down, and the pots and pans shattered to the ground.

I walked to the back door and to my surprise, the iron door was still there. My brother once lied to me that the iron gates of winter were sweet. I half-heartedly licked a small sip, well, it was indeed sweet, because my tongue was stuck.

I walked out of the "home" and waited for me to look through the village one by one, but I found nothing.

The cold wind wandered over me, trying to take something away. Around the village, I felt lonelier than ever, which made me ask myself softly, "Am I really nothing?" "Thinking about it, everything in my memory became hazy, my hair was tight, and my forehead was already sweating like rain...

Those stories have slowly drifted away with the past, and I am old, but the memory cannot be erased after all:

How many people have admired your youthful appearance, you know who is willing to endure the relentless changes of the years; how many people have come and gone in your life, and you and I can be with you and me all your life.