At night, it was dark and cold. Under the lonely lamp, I flipped through my own record of loneliness, searching page by page, looking for the imprint left by time and the depression of my mood. The green lantern is alone, a person, indulging in words, word by word, narrowing the distance between me and sadness. Sigh, with no heart to lean on, who will graze my soul? Pick a handful of warmth, who will step on my thoughts?
Perched in the cold depths, banished in the dreams of words, in the confused breath, who is breathing in the gloom and negativity? The eyebrows are locked, the eyes are covered with dust, the worldly sadness has faded time, and in the traces of the past and the glitz of the past, I have found some answers, that is, the years on my forehead, the wounds in the corners of my eyes, and the white frost that slowly climbs on the sideburns. Gaze, thick log, in the brightness and decay of the past, the moonlight has been buried by the soul, the faint wind, faintly a wisp of ink.
Bowing his head, soaking in a cold, waving a mottled imagination, the withered figure fell into a desolation, the words touched the sadness, and the words embedded in the sorrow. A piece of paper rhymes, isolated from the thin cool, a residual ink blends with the hazy moonlight, next to the wind and frost and the vast page number, dancing the whispers of the soul, dancing with strong vows, once the scenery, once the sky, are in the fragments of memory, rough into a piece of ink.
Perhaps, behind the years, everyone will hide some loneliness, some sadness, some old dreams that cannot be said. Whenever the night is quiet, it will spread out, vent and let it flow. Time flies, what can we use to remember this? Suddenly looking back, when there is nowhere to put it, perhaps, only pen and ink accompany us to sing softly.
Isn't it? In the vicissitudes of the world, when the light is old, our inner memories, feelings, and old dreams will age with time and slowly fade. And when we use our thoughts to gaze at these pasts, we can only use a tube of light ink, a quiet text, and combine them into simple sentences in the depths of our hearts to record our own years.
Touched in their own stories, warm in their own past, sighing in a faint sense of pity, these passing smoke clouds, brilliant fireworks, are destined to be unable to be retained by the years, and can only be engraved on the text. We are powerless to change, but we can record it forever, and whenever we look back, it is the spiritual world that belongs to you alone, and it is the square where you alone feel deeply.
Between paper and ink, what dances is the chase and flow of life, if you don't want to forget, it is more appropriate to put your dreams there. Placed in the moonlight, there will be the taste of loneliness; in the heart, there will be broken shadows; placed in the wind, and afraid of disappearing traces in the flow.
Such a treasure, perhaps, can only be hidden in a piece of paper in black and white, no matter how many vicissitudes of the years, no matter how far time has gone, the ageless scenery in the text, always let us find the original shadow when we look over, and it will last forever. Stories, articles, we are the protagonists in it, there is the sleep of our hearts, there is our ideal wandering. Whenever in the middle of the night, wake up these words, the ink fragrance that slowly wafts out always emits beauty, making our hearts quiet and comfortable.
Perhaps, nothing can hide the traces of these words, the years of loneliness, this is the warmest place of the years. Ink, through the moonlight, words, illusion into a wisp of flowers, dancing, this is the bloom of our thoughts in life. In the faint years, happiness, sadness, gentleness, and excitement are all worth our dancing ink incense to render with words, and they are worth using a quiet time to slowly appreciate. Passing by, the ink fragrance of words, mixed together, interlaced with light and shadow, will always accompany us, the earth for a long time.
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