I once heard a saying that people are looking for something that suits them all their lives. In this way, I was lucky to find what I was after early on.
I remember that at that age when I couldn't hold the pen steadily, the only thing I would memorize was Li Bai's "Quiet Night Thoughts". The poem is so well memorized that it is almost buried in the heart. Every word in the poem is given a soul by imagination. Countless times I felt like the moon, hanging high in the silver night sky, gazing at the sleeping plains and wilderness, the poet looking up from a certain house, and the souls of two time and space passed by.
The poet picked up the pen.
A little longer, casually memorize some messy words and sentences, and piece together a page, which is considered an article. The over-embellished pile was the "thing" that I was most proud of at the time—and now it seems that it can hardly be called a "work". I began to drift a little at the praise of the adults, as if I were a poet under the hour and the moon.
The sun rises at night and the light goes out at sunset. Time is a game of bright and dark chess, the chessboard is square and quiet, the chess pieces are round and moving, I don't know if your chess path is to follow the rules, or to find a new path.
Fortunately, I did not give up my pen and have had two lives forever ever since. Two points and a line, slowly interspersed into many landscapes. Too much beauty, Eden-like wonderland.
I have seen frozen lakes, I have seen cracked sand dunes; I love the weather of the Mediterranean, I love the snow of Siberia; I have become an eagle in the sky, I have become a floating algae in the stream. I roam freely in heaven and earth as I please. At this time, the busyness of the whole day washed away the vanity of the heart, and I only immersed myself in the tranquility of writing for a moment. I fantasized that maybe one day when I woke up early, I could stand on the mountain and look down. Watch the white clouds cover the plains, rising and falling like the waves of the sea. The peaks that emerge from the clouds and are far and near are all coming and going with the floating clouds, or surging or silent, and they are ever-changing in an instant.
I was waiting for an opportunity, waiting for my heart to be strong enough, waiting for the pen to go long enough. At that time, reality will collide with dreams, and there will be no longer any distance. Maybe later, I was "old" enough to travel far and wide, holding the articles I wrote when I was young, just like sitting between the sounds and colors of the mountains and the water, and found that even the landscape had a sad and joyful realm, and the intention was eternal.
After a piece of writing, the poet under the moon has not yet shelved his pen.
May I meet Wen for the rest of my life.
Author: Cheng Xueyao
Instructor: Fu Qian
Crisp post comment: The text is carried by life. Being able to pick up a pen is a kind of feeling that is getting stronger; being able to write out feelings is the exchange of life; being able to swing waves with a pen and annihilate with ink is a transcendent freedom.