Many times, the unhappiness in the heart is set by oneself, because too much self-insistence will cause the mind to fall into a certain embarrassing situation. Just as loving a person has an extremely paranoid nature, even if you love to the point of humility, you still refuse to let fate be missed. In fact, there are so many emotions that can be possessed, so why should you hide yourself and cling to bitter attachments.
If so, you can think in a different way, so that some senseless persistence, from the south to the north, from spring to winter, from plum blossoms to snow flakes flying down, all flow into the long river of time. Then, you just need to sit quietly on the shore of the red dust, pluck a drop of water, study a party of ink, warm a cup of tea, watch the warblers fly grass, watch the flow of years, and watch the moment when Shaohua spreads, like rain and dew watering the depleted veins, so that the vast desert that has already provided for the heart has been provided. As a result, you will find that that blue color, which fits the fireworks on your heart, is beautiful enough to become a legend of love in this life.
There is a kind of love, always painted on paper plum, perhaps the shallow pen and ink painting is not the unique essence, however, but all those who have exhausted their minds, although they cannot do the rhyme and immersion, but they are also looking horizontally and vertically, as if it is the beauty of a plain, and it is always believed that only in this way can it be regarded as no regrets.
If, in this world, the fate of the world, always have to go through a hundred turns, open when the flowers are blooming, and end in the midst of full of sighs, come, a play disperses, only in the lonely role to understand, good, bad, sad, happy, are a cycle of grievances, after all, no one can accompany. If, every time you walk by, it is like pouring the wind and moon, drinking a little drunk, and then turning back to ask bitterly, if, if one day you will meet in the joy of the landscape, are you willing to borrow a pot of breeze on credit, half a glass of thin wine, do you want to get drunk with me again?
Already, I can't count the nodes at which this troublesome day has gone, only to know that in that longer time, all the divergences have been put together again, and then, creeping and sighing in my heart. You say that because I had misheard the hyacinth's singing, I had ignored the most beautiful scenery you had painted for me, and in the end, I could never find my way back. You say that you stand at the ferry in the wind again and again until your mind freezes, and the loneliness of the double-petaled flower is like a touch of constant idleness, which cannot be stopped, cannot be stopped, and has to drift with the water.
You say, through the years, you still remember what a profound torture those misses, those experiences, and I turned a blind eye. I said that if the years were just constantly overlapping and dispersing, there would be no need for cause and effect to be told again, but only the poems written clearly stated a certain kind of experience. I said that if the loneliness of the mountain and the water is just to remember better, then the lost days are not a kind of spiritual harvest for us. I said, if you understand all this interlacing, the years in your eyes will not be cold.
Time, the alternation of the month and day of the year, there are many memories that cannot be precipitated, shelved in the heart, dappled and crippled above the euphoria, and no longer have the beauty of the petals falling on the shoulders. Therefore, the heart will face the morning rise, according to the sun repeatedly spread, drying, hope, one day can be all kinds of troubles together, gathered into sentences, edited into a text, just to decorate the story of the heart.
And the woman in the story, as if she had answered a fateful invitation, allowed me eight thousand miles of landscape and water to be happy, allowed me to be gentle and quiet for a lifetime, but in the end it was also an episode of deep love and shallowness, which could not withstand polishing, and inadvertently flew into the dust, which was an inexhaustible sadness. Only the cold and warm superimposed sentences still occupy the city of the heart, allowing me to read with my brow bowed, and then, guarding a period of quiet simplicity, let the face gradually grow older than the morning bell and the twilight drum.
