Born of beauty, with a pair of bright eyes to capture all the beautiful things in life. In April, the peach blossoms of the mountain temple began to bloom. The peach blossoms have always been a poetic time in my heart.
I still linger in the falling flower pavilion of the peach blossoms of the mountain temple, a wisp of dark incense under the eaves of the pavilion, feeling the surprise of the blossoming, but let my heart remember in the flowers, in the years that have not passed away, I do not know how to commemorate this earthly time, how to start this time? Or what kind of pen and ink to write this long-sealed past.
In the long river of years, everyone has their own deep or shallow story, and everyone has their own love and miss. Or to record a personal memory, perhaps the past is no longer our own past. Everything that we remember, that carries our dreams and the scenery of the past, will stir up ripples in our hearts.
A person lives in a certain wasteland in the middle of memories, and a person stands alone in the lonely and cold night, guarding all the silent memories alone. Or remember the pain of the past, or because everything may not be calmly presented in front of our eyes, but this kind of waiting or waiting or illusion, should be with some expectation.
Do I remember those seasons of blossoms? Do you remember the figure you left there? Do you still remember your presence in the long night? Your love may have disappeared from my dreams, but the feeling was close but close. I won't ask about the past again because the future is far away.
What I prefer, though it is too late at night, is a cup of tea and an oil-paper umbrella. There is no wrapping in the rainy season, and the temperature plummets but becomes cold. It was the original color of winter, the dry season. I like winter, but I prefer the cold temperature bit by bit, freezing into a freezing point between cold and warm.
This winter, I love this cold. In any case, I like not to dye my nails, but I always like to be in winter. The office is also different from a roommate, a cup of tea, a song, a text. I've always loved picking up that cup of tea, at the fire, a book, soaking in the warm hot water, and reminiscing about some people.
Perhaps it is the heavens who have forgotten the trivialities of memories, or perhaps the heavens are looking for another sustenance of the soul. Or on this depressed winter day, I was a little warm with him in the cold wind. Or on a summer day, someone with glasses and a solo stroll through the street. Or at some point in the winter, wearing glasses, when he appeared on the street opposite, those that happened in the warm air, or in the emotions of a place that were not related, he was so lucky, so easily he entered my heart, and in the loneliness he was gradually arranged and precipitated.
I like the quiet, and because there is a peace here, it is only the early winter and warm sun in this season. Sink in the winter and enjoy the warmth in the silence. But I always like to sit quietly by the window, listen to music, enjoy the clarity of time, or experience the quietness of the years in this quietness.