Choose a night without moonlight and put a firework into the sky. Let the fire light fade half of the night, let the roar echo alone in the sky... I like the fireworks season, I like the tranquility in the noise, and I like the feeling of the past in the cold.
After watching a talk show of "Art Life", the protagonist was a talented lady in the Grand View Garden that was "prosperous with smoke and willows, gentle and rich towns". They have given countless audiences tears in their eyes, and they have not been in tears when they face their own twenty years ago on the screen. I know very well that they are not only touched by the tragedy of love full of bitter tears, they are silently weeping for their former and present selves and the stormy life they have walked. Dai Yu, who was once "quiet like a delicate flower shining on the water, acting like a weak willow wind, could not hide the wrinkles left in the corners of her eyes by the years in front of the close-up shots; and the middle-aged man in front of her with a beard and a vicissitudes face could never be reminded of the Baoyu on the screen who "laughs sometimes, that is, looks at it and has feelings".
Twenty years are at your fingertips. But is it just a fleeting period for the audience and the cast? From their tearful smiles, I understood their feelings about the years. Life itself is touching, because the memory retains that period of past like smoke and fog. I liked to listen to "You at the Same Table" very early on, but at that time I only felt that the melody was moving, and I never considered the meaning of the lyrics. And now, thinking of the same window that has long gone their separate ways, I suddenly have some nostalgia for that period of light and breezy days. "At that time, the sky was always very blue, the days always passed too slowly, you always said that graduation was far away, and in the blink of an eye, you were running to things." Suddenly, the corners of his eyes were wet, and everything that had once been crept away from his hand, leaving only the familiar melody and the scattered memories that remained in his mind. The moment felt like sipping a cup of tea: it didn't have any taste, but it tasted everything. An old yellowed photograph, a dusty diary, a crumpled letterhead, an old song with a faint sadness... These are the touches that the years have left us, and even without any embellishment, they will be cherished in the deepest recesses of memory.
Some people say: "Moving is a song, a heroic song that swings back to the intestines; moving is a poem, a poem of love that haunts; moving is a painting, an oil painting with strong colors." But I believe more in the fact that touching is a season, a season of silence and loneliness but with fireworks. The lonely town is too gorgeous, and the figure of fireworks breaks through the silence of the night. The arrogance revealed by the gorgeous itself is too dare to touch, but the smile reflected by the fireworks truly sprinkles warmth. In the winter-filled courtyard, I proudly waved the fireworks stick in my hand and swept across the sky, and the dots drifted away with the wind. The warm breeze blew through the cold cheeks, and it did not take away the cold at all. I put my hand to the gorgeous fireworks, praying for warmth from the colours.
Every year when the Spring Festival is approaching, I will light fireworks in the dark of night. In an instant, they radiate light, as if the night urges them to bloom, and the night gives them a peaceful and unobtrusive mind. I stood under the stump of the pomegranate tree and looked at the faint light that had been forced to bloom. The light flew to the sky, like a butterfly crossing the sea, lonely, lonely. Like fireworks, kites flying high in the sky fly high, but they imply helplessness and few falls. The high place is cold, it is admirable, time has passed, the mood has frozen, the mentality of the past dissipates with the wind, and the proud kite will always fall. I always hope that there is a flowing river under my feet, and the water is gentle and reflects the remnant moon like a hook. Pink lanterns float over the river, drifting quietly in the winding place, at the mercy of fate. Like fireworks, it dances through the sky, but dances the pattern that others expect.
At that time, fireworks, quiet and gorgeous. Gorgeous enough not to be accepted by loneliness, but they are actually one. Some people say that lonely people are cold and arrogant, and their arrogant talents make people dare not touch them. I would like to be a lonely person, to write the magnificence of this life with loneliness and pride, and to touch the vicissitudes of the engraved heart.
At that time, fireworks, did not want to be alone, but always lonely...