In the year of youth, pen and ink are fragrant, singing solo at night, and dreaming of blue cream.
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On a lonely summer night, the moon bends over the branches, listening to frogs, insects and birds in spring. Bright stars, dim street lamps, a gust of wind, bringing out the whispering of fallen leaves.
This long summer night is so quiet.
Wandering around the winding path of the small town in May, looking around at a loss, the traces of the old days can no longer be found. Along the way, watching the flowers bloom and fall, in this sleepless night, will there be someone like me, alone in my hometown, in the forgotten corner?
In a hurry, the years have gone without a trace. But the place where the past originated has already turned into a piece of Wang Yang, and only the waves that once met have folded into embracing time and rippled in the blue ocean.
After a brief encounter, stop dreaming. If in this quiet night, there will always be an inexplicable expectation in my heart, expecting to suddenly find an old friend I haven't seen for years in the moment of turning back, and then be caring and attentive. I know, it's just my wishful thinking. Turning around and looking back, the scenery remains the same, and everything is the same as when it came, without any change.
The night is deep, and endless darkness covers everything in front of you. Quiet lake, a little light, like the purest dream. In the blurred vision and blurred eyes, I can't tell the distance between dream and reality for a long time. I can only walk slowly into this bustling old dream with heavy steps.
Dreams are like blue and white flowers. Gently touch the years, listen to the melody of memories, let thoughts spread, let sadness dance, and finally bury yourself and age your heart.
If memory is an old bitter wine, why do so many people like to drink it alone? Give up or pay homage?
The evening breeze swept by, and the ghosting was swaying. Chewing the old saying that "wine doesn't make people drunk" in my mouth, my disappointed thoughts have already jumped over the track of time, and my memories are scattered into an enchanting red.
Tonight, I pieced together a broken dream with pieces of fallen flowers as the introduction. Vaguely in the dream, I seem to have returned to the red scarf era, to the classroom of the school, to the banyan tree in the pond, to the people and to the voice of the year. At this moment, it seems that the whole world is still, only those scenes in the dream bloom in a lonely heart.
In recent years, these things have gathered and dispersed, and the empty building looks at the moon. This is drunk, and this is desolate.
It is said that memory is a different kind of beauty, vague and hazy. Those indelible traces quietly carry my thousands of memories. Even if time goes by for thousands of years, I will still be addicted to singing, singing for a while and singing all the way.
Time flies, don't wait for the time that flies. In a blink of an eye, we came to the edge of the end of youth, and everything was in such a hurry and nostalgia. When I recall the past, all those things are getting old in my heart. Finally, we can only use some messy words to pin our memories of the past and condense them into warm and moist tenderness outside our dreams.
I still remember that year, we laughed and ran on the way to class.
I still remember how ridiculous we were doing morning exercises that year.
I still remember that year, we stayed at home and refused to go to school for a few cents of pocket money.
I still remember that year, our red scarf was like a twist.
I still remember that year when we were homesick, we would secretly hide under the bed and cry.
I still remember that year, when we first came into contact with this word, it was called love.
I still remember that year, we would secretly write love letters to girls we liked.
I still remember that year, we looked at the girl we liked and blushed.
I still remember that year, we all had a group of brothers and sisters named Wolf Friends and Beautiful Girls.
I still remember that year, I didn't know you and you didn't know me.
I still remember that year, I couldn't express these emotional words.
I remember that year, I was young and frivolous.
I remember that year, we were all simple,
I remember that year, ...
That year may be a dream that we can never go back. When we grow up, we are mature. We all have to keep running for a living. False hearts, layers of masks and false smiles decorate us as passers-by, and we will never be innocent again.
Stumbling on this journey of life, after several twists and turns, after several sorrows, there is no ups and downs in my heart, and it seems that all my memories fade away with my steps. That year's red scarf, that year's class, that year's friends and that year's lovers all seem to be blurred. In a hazy moment, I seemed to hear the song of my childhood again: "Row, the boat pushes the waves away, and the beautiful white tower is reflected on the sea, surrounded by green trees and red walls." ...