I saw the classroom of Grade Three, the dormitory and teachers' apartment behind the Science and Technology Museum, the art building and gymnasium on the playground, and the trees in my sight were covered with lush branches. Further outside the school, high-rise buildings are row upon row and colorful.
Open the window, the wind blows across my face, big or small, urgent or slow. I saw the hair blown by the wind and the paper corners rolled up, and I saw the branches of the winter jasmine swaying in the corridor. There are osmanthus trees on the grass downstairs. In October, osmanthus is still in full bloom. The fragrance of flowers floats lightly in the wind, either near or far.
It seems that a fixed distance will remind me of some past events, a picture, a fragment and a complex. I think of the silhouette of the sun blowing through the leaves that summer, the lonely eyes of the wet cat on rainy days, the blurred back after waving and turning around, and the clear and bright blue sky when I am with you. Those messy fragments are staggered and transformed, like finely divided gems in a kaleidoscope.
I looked at the faint clouds on the horizon, slowly drifting with the wind, like those vague memories, quietly lurking in the depths of my heart. When it is quiet, there will always be a lot of feelings, like vines winding around the wall. Time is still, and the posture is lingering. In the days when the wind is light and the clouds are light, smiling at the breeze and the clouds at dusk is a small beauty and tranquility, which makes those distant voices drift away quietly with thoughts, with a touch of joy and sadness.
The arrival of the night is silent, like a drop of ink on paper, spreading into a gorgeous flower. Night is always perfect, it has all the perfect qualities. It is quiet, broad, vast and profound.
Vast expanse, a dark space, can be infinitely extended into the distance, ethereal and vast. There is a faint orange halo in the night sky of the city, which will slowly transition to dark black and spread over the top of the head, like a meditation frown, which is too thick to fade.
It's late at night, my thoughts are sleepless, and I look at the deep eyes of the night. The black pupil is like a beautiful gem. When I close my eyes, I seem to hear the breath of the night, which gently echoes in my ears with the evening breeze, gentle and deep.
My brain is very active and chaotic at night. I think of many things, words, pictures, people and complexity. They whizzed past my mind on a train called Memories. I think of the cherry blossoms flying all over the sky under the 20% cherry blossoms on the cover of a novel, the fleeting beauty of gorgeous fireworks and falling stars in the night sky, the gorgeous sunshine pouring down from the beautiful jumping notes of Concerto No.9 in A minor, the beautiful fairyland guarded by unicorns in The Wizard of Oz, the moon that refuses to set with the sun during the day, and the sunset with boundless compassion in the evening.
Night is a quiet listener. He looks at you silently, looking at your smile or tears. He holds all your secrets in his arms, tacitly and silently. I may be thinking about things at night. For him, black is his day. Loneliness is hidden in the night sky, loneliness is singing, the melody is familiar, and the lyrics are vague.
The tide rises and falls, the sun and the moon fly like a shuttle, and life goes on and on day after day. When those memories have gone away from me and all the flowers have fallen, only the memories on the ground are mottled and beautiful in the sunshine of reality.
Teenagers riding bicycles whizzed past the wind tip, and the sharp light made people hard to open their eyes. I am used to staying in school day and night, but I am unscrupulous in my thoughts. I believe in graffiti, a chaotic thought, paying tribute to the past.
The wind lightened those thoughts, scattered a little starlight, and the fireworks in full bloom did not belong to me. The most beautiful trace is called memory. ...