I slept late every night, not because I was in good health, but because the endless darkness gave me infinite inspiration. Looking up at the starry sky, I seem to see an innocent smile, a warm look, a qianqian hand, a fluttering white dress... The romantic plot and warm scenes are particularly clear under the background of darkness.
Every morning I stand at the subway entrance, look at the raging crowd, and feel an inexplicable panic, and all the good that was created last night collapses in an instant. Looking at the expressionless faces, I lost the ability to fantasize. I often think: This is my life, this is our life, whose life is worth cherishing? Whose life is more worth cherishing?
This crowd is bustling, how many people are associated with us?
There is a kind of person: the person who has loved.
The world is vast and vast, how many places are worth remembering?
There is one place: a place where people I have loved have been.
There is a place that only we know, and we— me and you, there is a place — and I have been to you, and only those who know — know it — know.
The sad subway station will never be such a place, and even the first glimpse of the crowd will be devastated by the crowd. If anyone wants to propose at the subway station, it must be due to insufficient blood supply to the brain due to not eating breakfast.
I closed my eyes, darkness came, and goodness followed.
In that place, there was an old tree with a thick trunk, and what we used to do was to hold the tree with open arms and hands at each other. I can't see your face, but I can hear your joyful laughter clearly.
The crown of the old tree burns like a huge green torch in the blue sky, like our youth. The cool mountain wind blows and the leaves flutter as if singing a moving song. Time seemed to freeze, and we leaned on the old tree and looked into the distance, and under the sunlight, the world seemed to be shrouded in a huge piece of amber.
It's a place only we know, the world is big, but I just want to stay here; there are a lot of people in the world, but I just want to be with you.
What the vicissitudes of the times, what the legends of ghosts and monsters, have nothing to do with us. I sing you an old song, you read me a new poem, we look at each other and smile, and my heart seems to melt in this good time.
We write on the tree with our fingers, which is our favorite thing to do, and we write on the tree what we want to say but can't say. Sometimes you'll make me guess what you're writing, and sometimes you'll cover it with your hand to prevent me from seeing what you're writing. Watching your delicate fingers gently stroke over the bark, there was an inexplicable warmth in my heart.
In the days when you were away, I sat under the tree, and only the old tree silently accompanied me. I touched the rough bark of the old tree, as if I heard your familiar laughter coming from behind the tree. I was wondering: In my absence, did you ever think of me like this? I wrote a word on the tree with my finger: Wait for me, wherever you are.
I opened my eyes, and there was still a crowd of people, a noisy scene, no old trees, no far away, no you.
But I believe: you are waiting for me in a place where only we know.