The creases of the years bloom in the corners of the eyes, one deep and one shallow, interlacing the dreams of the old times. The dream is a cumulative memory, a thick mess. Those are the days of fireworks that sneak away quietly.
At this moment, it continues...
I want to remember the grandeur of a period of time, but what comes to mind is the rush of survival, the triviality of three meals, and the life of tea books in leisure time.
So ordinary, life is like a running account, but it will still be like. Come to think of it, if you have a poetic heart, happiness becomes simple.
I don't know when, I will redeem my heart. Shut down the distractions of the world and focus only on your inner world.
Occasionally, with the inspiration of the four seasons, write down a small word, scatter it wherever it is, and wait for whoever passes by, and can gently pick it up.
Decades of time, going around, the original meaning of life, but it is just a simple.
Someone accompanies you to three meals a day and cooks your own favorite. Although it is a dish in the discount area, it has been carefully prepared, but there is no sense of happiness that spreads from the discounted days.
Epidemic, three years. From profligacy to convergence, life forces you to cut out the complicated and simplify, as if you have become accustomed to it, the distant place of the lock, and the ordinary blandness of the day.
Fast forward to April, and time has left in a carriage, leaving us trying to follow. Many plans were put on hold, and it was fortunate that spring perched in front of the window.
The past has been scabed, and the world does not pursue it. Wrapped in the arms of the wind, watching the flower shadows ripple in the tea soup, watching the pages being turned up for no reason, they lazily leaned on idleness, waddling through the blank time.
Strange flowers are difficult to stay, and the passing days are swept away little by little, until the town is wrapped in lush greenery, and spring begins to end the pen and ink.
Passing the winter, but trapped in the spring, can only hope for the summer, the extinguished fireworks in the world can soar, the quiet streets can be bustling.
When the time comes, you want to go to Gangnam to see the rain, or shout out the expectations of your taste buds in front of the crowded food stalls. As a result, the ordinary days of being liked have a little more color.
I couldn't help but start looking forward to it at the table where tea and books intertwined.
When there is nothing you can do about life, waiting is also an effort.
Calm down, cook a bowl of soup to comfort yourself, taste the thickness of the soup, watch the boiling of the flowers in the depths of spring, stay in your own little world, wait, while enjoying, this simple day, this pyrotechnic verse.
Real life is often a rough stroke, where is the work to craft it? And it's such a rough day that deserves our full attention.
Cherish the ordinary time, it is passing, and we can't stop it.
The aroma of tea lingered briefly at the fingertips, and the story held in his hand came to an end, and the people in the story were happy, and everyone found a suitable harbor to stay.
The reality continues, the days are still boiling hot in a porridge and a meal, and we are boiling time in a fireworks hut.
Outside the window, the branches are blossoming, the clouds are wandering, the breeze is rushing, everything is full of life, and people can't help but confess to the impermanent life.
Endow a joyful heart, to spend the years of sorrow, although youth is no more, but still in a low eyebrow and shallow smile, a little childish cuteness.
Flying flowers fall and dance in amazement, in the tea cup, full of tea soup, the bitter taste is already green, quiet tasting, this is like water time, slowly thin.
Spread out the old notes, write the pen over the years, poetic fireworks in the world, and live up to this hurried flow of years.