The sunset in the evening, burning the last heat of life through my shoulder, left a bloody shadow on the book.
I finally gave up doodling in my notebook. In the shadow of paper, the words seem so pale and weak, as if my thoughts were fragile.
Looking through the previous words, every word is full of emotion. But I can't go back. "Who read the west wind alone? Rustling yellow leaves close the window, reminiscing about the past and setting the mountain. I was so drunk that I fell asleep in the spring that I spilled tea on books. At that time, this was just a normal phenomenon. " Nalan's handwriting is still on the top left of the desk, but he has no strength to cover it again.
I used to think that words are more or less suspected of moaning, those beautiful and gorgeous sentences and chapters, those catchy poems and phrases, those words that make us cry, and those words that poke our hearts. ......
I don't know what kind of mentality, consciously or unconsciously reducing the number of writing, always feel that words, his life should not bear so much sorrow for me, but whenever I start writing, I can't do without those wounds. My handwriting is like a skeleton dancing on the grave, quiet, crazy, stubborn and sad.
Daiyu used to watch fallen flowers and write "Burying Flowers". Baoyu was speechless. It is said that it is enough to have a bosom friend in life. And my words, who will read? I've crossed Qian Shan, and the afterlife is waiting for me. Isn't it a long way? The child thought, just to comfort himself.
The ancients wrote books that they wanted to hide in the mountains. I admire them from the heart, and I don't want to be understood by the world, but only to be loved by my bosom friends.
In fact, words are alive. They are in my heart, sucking my heart blood from conception to sucking my soul at birth. They grow and carry my thoughts, feelings and even my life. He is my child, and I expect someone to understand him and accompany him in his joys and sorrows. Watching him grow up bit by bit, I don't want him to be alone. If he was born without being understood by the world and destined to be lonely, then I would rather he was never born.
I am almost paranoid. I regard him as a new sapling. I pruned, watered, ridged and fertilized him, hoping that he would grow into a towering tree. Even if he can't build a tall building, he can always enjoy the cool for passers-by.
If I gave birth to words, then I stripped him of his gorgeous coat and let him dance naked under the searchlight of emotional truth.
I gave him the most primitive life, I hope he can grow up healthily in the long river of years and never change his true colors!