Life is a process of continuous understanding,
In different rings,
There will be different gains.
Looking back, youth is the most beautiful dream.
Just,
I was in a hurry when I passed by.
Forget it, baby.
Why not take advantage of spring,
Untie the shackles of happiness,
Drink a ray of spring,
Forget what sadness is.
(Prose: At eighteen, our youth is like sand.
At the age of eighteen, our youth, like tiny stones, melts in the boundless beach, and we don't know when it will drift away with the wind or sink into the sand. Our youth, like sand, is held in our hands, and the sand flows out from the gap in our hands, but you can't feel her warmth and hardness. We don't want to disturb some waterfowl living in the sand on the shore and follow them abruptly. We are just a grain of sand. We can't get the sun in our hands, and we can't feel the gentle and sacred moonlight. At eighteen, our youth is lighter than gravel. There are many footprints on the beach, and the edge of the gravel is a vast river. We watched the water in the vast soup roll, but the gravel was gray and black. Sometimes I want to do whatever I want like those big yachts, but our age doesn't give us such capital. As the saying goes, stand at thirty, be confused at forty, know your destiny at fifty, and do whatever you want at sixty. We are young and doomed to accept temptation and jealousy.
Time is like petals in water. It exists in the eyes of your concern. If you don't pay attention, it will exist in your memory and imagination. Our youth, like tiny grains of sand, floats lightly and then sinks. We don't know where it will fall, and we don't know where it will fall before the dust settles. Sand is not as romantic as dandelion, wandering around the world, can fly far, sand is difficult to get close to tea, and those frosted flowers escape a lot of gloom.
A grain of sand may also have its beauty. Not as elegant as the wind in the forest, not as pure as the budding words, but you can smell the faint flowers and look at the picturesque blue sky. I think life in sand is not free. It takes time for flowers to bloom and fall, and our youth will eventually be buried and become a lifelong regret. However, such a choice is very helpless. After the heavy rain, it was dusty and windy. I think the dust and filth are being washed away bit by bit, and the hot flashes in the air are getting colder. However, our youth is gone. The name of the flower heart years is doomed, and flowers bloom and fall. But youth gives us the right, we will like the cold in rainy days, no longer fragile, but also endure the humidity in rainy days.
Perhaps, at the age of eighteen, we need a belief to cross it, something to guide people's lives and make them meaningful. It also turns sand into pearls. People should have faith. Instead of letting it fall apart and sink.
The 18-year-old ignorant boy is fading away. I have been thinking that my youth, my 18 years old, is over. I don't know where to wait and see, where to stay, and where is the end.
I can't bear to grow up, I can't bear to leave the place where I have been, and I can't bear to rush by like this. Who warmed you with infinite youth? I tried to collect those scrawled past, but I still couldn't sort out a time to cherish my youth. Maybe life is doomed to regret. Those regrets are like a pair of shackles, wrapped around my whole youth. The more I struggle, the more painful it becomes. Maybe youth is like a swamp. We passed carefully, full of mystery and fear, and finally chose to sink into it. I have always been used to being a quiet person, smiling in my heart and crying alone. At that time, I always felt that it was a long time, and those days of staring at each other were blank and didn't need anything to fill. Those swarming things caught me off guard, and before I could stand firm, I fell into a deep valley and screamed in horror.
For a time, I felt that youth was nothing but groans and pains, but who can understand the fragility of silence behind those groans? At the age of eighteen, we are more conceited, and those humble and stubborn are in our hands. Stretched out hard, like a slap in the face, clenched its back, it was a fist. Maybe we no longer have adolescent rebellion, no longer have those publicity and calmness.
If youth is a grain of sand, when it appears in front of our eyes in the future, it will be unbearable to look back and there is nowhere to put it. I'd rather put it in a place that I can never see, and it's sudden and sacred when it comes.