I have always wanted to go to the beach, not only because there is a profound cultural atmosphere there, but also because there is a kind of peace, a kind of softness, a kind of scenery that is far more beautiful than the beauty of the world. Leisurely and undisciplined.
After living a long dormant life, I eagerly rushed to the beach at dusk when the summer flowers had fallen and the greenery was colorful.
The car was driving on the road, with the whistling wind in the ears. In the dusk, the sun was slowly sinking, and the bright red light shot out from the treetops and branches, scattering the white clouds on the horizon. , the green hills are dyed blood red, the sunset is wandering in the final magnificence, and the stream of light that cannot be chased dips horizontally into the car from the car window, and the chaotic colors are as tense as flowers blooming. At the beautiful end, the sunset is like a tired heart, unable to control its own steps, and flees in panic. As a result, the mountains dimmed, the clouds dimmed, and the trees dimmed.
Walking into the beach, the night is already dark, the cool breeze is blowing, the moon is bright and the wind is clear. The fragrance of the soil moistens the surroundings. The once-turbulent beach has no five winds or ten rains. It is so quiet that even the wind has stopped breathing. In the midst of the hustle and bustle, like a classical flower blooming quietly, with no distractions, like the charming Jiangnan land, intoxicated by the fragrance of old love emitted by itself. We, who are rushing around in the world of fireworks, seem to be sitting on both sides of time. As time goes by, we avoid the crowded crowds and are in the depth of late summer, chasing the dense fragrance of books. We watch all the way with complex eyes, through the bustling background , walking through the lines of poetry hundreds of years ago, witnessing figures coming and going in a hurry. However, the poet has already left, leaving only smoke and dust flying along the way. In the quiet night, the last summer flowers have bloomed on the river bank for many years, and they come here, and the fragrance bursts. In the night when no one is watching, they are fragrant, beautiful, and then wither, looking for a gentle comfort.
At this moment in the middle of the night, time has stopped, the beach has become still, and our once anxious and tired moods have calmed down. Quietly, I fell into a dream, letting the sound of the spring and the intermittent chirping of insects flood my heart...
The next morning, a few birdsong and a piece of clear and pleasant sunshine turned the very green leaves from the sky. The sash of the window stretches to the bedside, and a drop of clear dew falls in the dream, transparent and peaceful. I woke up slowly, faced the wind, and stepped into the depths of the beach.
A slender gravel road extends into the distance. On the right is the shiny green field, on the left is the clear and passionate Le'an River. Across the river is a village. The background of the village is a belt of green hills, with mountains and The mountains stretch between each other and shade each other into different shades of green. Walking on the beach with the morning breeze, a leaning grass, a leaf of duckweed flowing by, a small bubble emerging from the bottom of the water inadvertently, and a handful of tiny ripples all made me see her beauty. And passionate.
The Le'an River in the early morning is as calm as a mirror, and even the slightest tremor can be seen. Amidst the murmuring sound of running water, a piece of clear sunlight slants over, through the treetops with sparse branches and leaves. When it occasionally leaks onto the river surface, the river water is coated with a layer of flowing golden yellow. Countless weak ripples disturbed by the sunlight slowly spread to the left and right banks, slowly flashing a diffuse thin light, like the flow of time, until the embankment, low It tells the loneliness and vicissitudes of the beach under the universe.
The river embankment is a row of branches. Some are bent over the water, looking at their own reflections in the water; little flower. Sunlight leaks from the leaves, and the water occasionally shines, reflecting colorful waves. In the distance, egrets are flying in the clouds, and the willow embankment is reflected; nearby, dragonflies are dotting the water, dancing lightly, their fishy songs are flying from the river, and the bells of the ancient temple are still lingering. The layers of emerald green mountains and beautiful peaks complement each other with the green of the lake and the blush of the sun. Such a mysterious and beautiful picture, only by opening the eyes of our souls can we see its meaning and subtlety.
Standing in the bustling place, looking up at the blue sky and white clouds, the tides rise and fall, the wind and clouds gather and disperse. The clouds in various shapes and forms come and go suddenly above the head, and the clouds are like cotton, gently floating away, and the rolls are like waves passing by. There are thousands of states, all of which are strange, and it is like a picture of the sky and cloud shadows lingering. scenery.
Beside the river, people fishing alone have no desire for tranquility. They are calm and calm, and their hearts are calmed down by the utilitarianism and impetuosity of the world. They watch the sunrise and sunset alone on both sides of time, ignoring the rolling clouds. Life is like dew and dust. On the edge of the bustling city, here is the most real life. Although this kind of life is hard and low-level, the people living in it are happy and satisfied.
The face of the former house on the beach is mottled with stone marks, and its personnel have changed. It is like a lonely butterfly, lonely and desolate. After it peacefully brought the best scenery of the past, it opened up another view of the dilapidated ruins. Those scattered words and sentences, the color of the flowers have faded and the fragrance of the flowers is no longer, but they allow us to witness a whole poetic late Qing Dynasty. Era. Now, it has come to a grand and poignant end. Without a tree, a flower or any scenery as a backdrop, in the passing years, the footprints of history are vicissitudes and loneliness. Who still remembers what happened here? The fleeting moment, who remembers to pick it up?
When I touch the moss-covered skin on the beach and watch the dust filtered by the years, there is always a trace of complex that never dies, which makes me believe that when all the poetry drifts away, there will always be a crystal clear. The seeds will blossom into flowers on an unforeseen day, dotting both sides of the beach.