Life is frivolous again and again.
Frivolous and tireless
-inscription
1
I hear echoes, from the valley and the heart.
Harvesting an empty soul with a lonely sickle
Repeated refusal, repeated happiness.
There are swaying oases in the desert.
I believe in myself.
Born like bright summer flowers
Not afraid of being unbeaten, like fire.
Bear the burden of heartbeat and breathing.
Enjoy it forever
2
I hear music, from moonlight and body.
Assist extreme bait to capture ethereal beauty.
Life is full of intense and naive.
There are always memories throughout the world.
I believe in myself.
Death is like a beautiful autumn leaf.
Don't be full of confusion and gestures.
Even if it withers, it will retain the pride of plump muscles and clear bones.
Extremely mysterious and profound
three
I hear love, and I believe in love.
Love is a struggling blue-green algae.
Like a sad wind
Through my bleeding veins
Belief in the garrison years
four
I believe I can hear everything.
Even foresee separation and meet another self.
And some moments are impossible to grasp.
No matter east or west, what is lost will never come back.
Look at my hairpins, they are blooming all the way.
I missed some frequently and was deeply moved by wind, frost, rain and snow.
five
Prajna paramita, let me know.
Let life be beautiful like summer flowers and death like autumn leaves.
What do you care about having?
Life is like summer flowers, the most novel summer special issue in August 2009?
After years, I saw those flowers again.
Warm and bright smiles and hugs seem to ignite the cold songs of that year, so we know a lot of forgiveness, our smiles are recognized in time, and we laugh and tolerate.
This is a party four years after graduation. Sitting tightly around a table in a hot pot restaurant, I only have a feeling of going home. I never thought that a person who was afraid of meeting unexpectedly in the past would become so really happy because of reunion. I've been talking about the age of seventeen, and I've been asking people where they are going: do you know who went?
Yes, we are all scattered around the world like feathers. Only by pursuing can we see that life is like a fireworks trail in the night sky.
About the process of these years, I can no longer say it like I did when I was sixteen or seventeen, imitating the sad tone. Time, with its unique stingy way, makes us gradually generous and understand that no matter how life treats us, we still have to promise ourselves that there will be sunshine tomorrow. If we can repeatedly carve and express the personnel details in our memory in the early years, then now we are probably unwilling to talk about it because of fatigue and the complexity of what happened.
I think, silence is a sign of growth, and the sign of maturity is how to be silent.
Tagore wrote: Let life be beautiful like summer flowers and death like autumn leaves. In China, we say that life is beautiful like summer flowers and death is beautiful like autumn leaves. This is the art of translation, putting a gorgeous coat on an ordinary sentence. The same is true of the years: in these years, we live like a long and quiet water, only to see the deep reefs and eddies, quietly hidden in the depths of the sparkling riverbed of youth, seemingly quietly disappearing in the distance. I think this is probably the art of time.
Coincidentally, every parting or reunion should be in summer. When I was walking in the street at noon this time last year, I received a short message saying that Teacher F had passed away. Will you come to the funeral at 9 tomorrow? I was not surprised and moved when I read the message. I put my cell phone back in my pocket. Under the scorching sun, I just feel a blank in my mind. I walked for a while and then took it out to reply. The teacher and I are not in the same city, so I don't think I will go. It is of course unreasonable to say that nature will not go. But when I think about it, I know that in my smooth subconscious, I am indifferent. At that moment, I was a little afraid of myself-but I felt like this all the time.
I remember when he taught us. Because of his own personal reasons, he always seems to be unpopular with students. Behind it are all kinds of devious and mean ridicule, even unfriendly resistance. I smiled, too, but I had a conscience and never said anything sorry to him. At that time, when I heard people talking about him, I thought to myself, if one day I live so lonely and be talked about like this, I might as well die. Because I have never had any clear love-hate relationship with others, even if I have, it is only a temporary exaggerated joke, so I have no special feelings for him. There is nothing unbearable about him in my impression. I think his history class is very good, but it is better than scripted. My mother once had a colleague who was a college classmate of Teacher F. When he heard that Teacher F was teaching me, he went to Kan Kan and talked about all kinds of things about Teacher F in college. There is actually the same banter as my classmate in the speech. He seems to live a lonely and messy life. In fact, what kind of temperament and style a person has and what kind of impression he brings to others are mostly beyond his own perception. What I can feel is the irresistible experience it brings me in turn.
When I was a sophomore, I heard that he finally got married and later had children. This is such a sudden news. I feel awkward, but I don't think he will be single all his life. I suddenly heard that he had passed away. I just realized that it was because of overwork and poor resistance. I didn't get over a cold for more than a week. I insisted on studying in the third year of high school, and I broke down from overwork ... This reason is put on people like him, which makes people feel very sad.
I naturally felt very abrupt and sighed for a while, but I didn't feel sad. There are many, but it is a pity. People in their thirties, with wives and children under their knees, may not have enjoyed much happiness in their lives.
These people who used to be close at hand talked to themselves and touched their shoulders, as if it were yesterday, and suddenly left one by one. I thought of my grandmother again. When I was in grade one, I did my homework at home. Suddenly, my mother called and said that my grandmother was dying. In the hospital, I received a critical notice. Come here quickly.
Grandma never had any symptoms, so suddenly, I don't know why. I go there by taxi. In the dark and muddy ward, I timidly walked over and saw the old man lying on the bed, with an oxygen tube inserted, his eyes closed and unconscious. The family members were speechless and looked sad one by one. My mother looked at me dull and ordered me to come and talk to my grandmother. I stood there, motionless, motionless, and didn't say a word at last. After a long time, my mother asked me to go home in an atmosphere.
I turned and ran away without saying a word. Take a taxi home alone. In the taxi, I didn't feel any deep hurt inside. It was cold that night. I put my face on the window and saw that the world is full of stories, but there are no more legends. In this brightly lit and prosperous era, I don't know when I can say goodbye to us ... the more I think about it, the more scared I am. When I get home, I feel blank and continue to do my homework-hand it in tomorrow.
Grandma died that night. All of a sudden. My hasty and clumsy brief appearance was the last time I saw my grandmother in my life.
Many years later, my mother told me that my grandmother died of unbearable depression and loneliness. She swallowed the whole bottle of sleeping pills and made up her mind. At that moment, I learned the whole story in detail, and my inner touch was extremely strong. So that every time I go to her grave, I feel sorry for the past, and I can't help crying when I stand in front of it like my family ... But it seems like a lot.
But it's too late. Our indifference and selfishness have caused such profound harm to the people we love ... this is an irreparable crime.
I don't feel like a stone-hearted person. But many times, I feel heartless. I read a book "Montmartre's suicide note" today, which said that the world is never wrong. What is wrong is the fragility of the soul. We can't escape the harm of the world, so we will suffer from the disease of the soul for a long time. This collection of letters is the last work of the author. After writing, she stabbed herself in the chest in her apartment in Paris and committed suicide. I don't think the author's writing style is good, and I don't think her way of treating life attracts my attention, but I have a heartfelt congratulations, or a little self-mockery, but I didn't produce such a person as thin as paper, as brittle as porcelain and as flowery as flowers.
Words, casual words. Leave, or leave. Growing up to such a day, because of the fragility of fear, I have hung a filter in front of my eyes before accepting everything, and the sadness and joy of personnel suddenly become indifferent. I don't think it's so shocking in my eyes, so naturally it's not shocking. And I remember less and less, leaving only a few vague traces, or only trivial things that are not heavy or heavy, and even the filter has not been used, which will not be amazing. The nerve endings in the brain thicken one by one. Re-watching an old film with traditional opera color, I thought that when I first watched it, I yawned 32 times when I heard the protagonist start singing, but now I am fascinated by the euphemistic Kunqu opera ... I always feel that my life is getting lonely, happy and scared. In this world of fireworks, I also want to be a kannika nimtragol who does not wrap her feet but pretends to do so. People dare not show the clues and try their best to disguise their lives.
When I was a teenager, I traveled with my mother, watched TV in the hotel at night, and reported a child's growth case on the program. Because many twists and turns are strikingly similar to myself, my mother and I are both stunned, frozen on each other, staring at the TV screen in the dark and silent room, and staring at each other with the last scene I want to mention. I have a remote control in my hand, and I can't stand this embarrassing and naked scene any longer. If I want to change the channel, my mother said, don't change it, keep watching. I was on pins and needles, and then every word that was gradually deepened by behind-the-scenes translation began to cry in the dark. Tears were so strong that I was shocked. When the program finally ended, I thought my mother was crying, too.
She said something to me in the dark, saying, let bygones be bygones ... forgive me.
Now, I don't know if I live wisely and honestly. I seem to have done something to satisfy my self-esteem and self-reliance, but my heart is still restless. After all, how can I easily ignore many things?
At this moment, I saw the flowers that witnessed my adolescence, gathered together and looked back. This kind of familiarity, which is still discernible after being washed away by time, makes people sigh. I can't say we live like summer flowers, live perfectly and wisely, and die like autumn leaves. At this moment, the most real thing is just a kind of generosity and forgiveness for yourself, others and this world where disappointment and hope coexist.
Not bad. Not bad. Now I am attached to my life, and I will be sad and happy sooner or later. I have a few drops of old friendship like wine and a few songs that I miss dearly. People come to smile at me, but those who leave won't make me sad. What do you want?