The wind of late summer and early autumn whistled in the ears of the swing, the slight cool moisturizing of every cell, the sunlight passing through the sun-dried broken green leaves, the overgrown clovery grass, the wind creeping in pieces of barbaric life, and occasionally one or two grasshoppers jumped up and squeaked out a faint mystery.
I have never been a self-motivated person, deeply loved with innocent enthusiasm, wounded on the inside, cared for on the outside, and often recognized by people at some moment, somewhere, by chance.
Just like this afternoon, I was sitting in a deserted corner of a park that I hadn't been to for more than a decade, surrounded by almost discarded fitness equipment, weeded everywhere, and two stone stools under two thick unknown trees, showing the solidity of the years. Thinking of the vegetable garden behind the building next to me, how remote and desolate, there are people who can open up a leisurely living fragrance, how good. In all things, good or bad is not in the environment, in people, in the heart.
The little yellow flower in the middle of the grass, so small, but it lit up my eyes.
Daylight is not everywhere, and youth comes from nowhere. Moss flowers are as small as rice, and also learn to bloom peonies.
I am also, no matter how I am not cared about, no matter how small my career is, but I can always keep my purity, keep my love and hope.
August 26, 2022
What a fate this place is.
