Those things, those people, you and I have long forgotten. I don't know when I can get back to my heart. Looking back at the graduation party, the lights are a little dim, and it is difficult to recognize yourself clearly. The beautiful melody is accompanied by the dim lone star in the quiet night sky, and the melancholy eyes wander in every corner of the audience, anxious and helpless. Numb hands are still beating the neatly arranged black and white keys, repeating it over and over again. I don't know when some unknown water shines on the black and white keys, accompanied by unknown water traces. My eyes have unconsciously stepped into yours, only to find that your face is full of tears. The faint sobbing has been covered by the sad piano sound, and you can't tell the truth from the truth. Worried that beauty, sadness and resentment are constantly developing. Indulged in this scene, I hope that there will be no ending notes, and black and white keys, who can never be touched, is doomed to be lonely all his life. Only when his wandering hands keep wandering back and forth, can the aestheticism I expect meet me? Many times it will backfire. No matter how wonderful the film is, the ghosting will disappear, and music is no exception. The difference is that the people in the song are scattered. End the game with laughter. I look at your distant back and stretch out my hands to keep you. I always hope that you can stay and continue to play the leading role in the next graduation. Meeting and parting continue. Students carrying luggage are walking on campus, and their confused eyes and curious eyes are always relatively close and far away. At the bus stop, the pedestrians who got on and off the bus, the familiar and unfamiliar faces, and the brisk and heavy footsteps disappeared in the evening that ended.
We of the same age, in the same campus, are experiencing similar growth in the alternation of the end point and the starting point. Did those happy propaganda memories evoke similar memories for you and me? The loneliness at the end of the song, the joys and sorrows on the stage, the lost farewell, the blending of tears and the affectionate hugs. Who can really understand? It's been so long since graduation, and I'm still so worried. Who can sigh for the untranslated youth before? Youth is over, and we wait for the next opening. In the journey ahead, waiting for us to fly bravely to our dreams in the sun. Waiting for us to use the starlight in the last story to recall the best years in our lives.
Those fallen flowers that have been in full bloom, those yellow leaves that have been green, always regret the shortness of time. It is too late for flowers to bloom, and it is too late for the sea, green and barren land to leave no trace of fallen leaves. Those songs that I love to sing, those tears that I sincerely shed, will be in this midsummer sky in blowing in the wind. Unplayed piano music has long been scattered among people. Youth without translation is over. Real time gives us, but it also takes away too much. A few degrees of wind and rain, tired of leaning on the diagonal bar. Look at the flowers on the stranger. The clothes are blue. Hazy, low eyebrows, and short-term laughter and singing are all past tense. Looking back, I'm a little sad. I am silent and the whole city smiles. Quietly guarding the time, gently twisting the blessings to friends, if the hearts are connected, the horizon is close at hand.
Postscript-In the hands of the Bohai Sea that sincerely waved to you, whose hand suddenly withdrew and turned away without saying anything. When will this separation bring about the next reunion? A period of meeting, a song of knowing each other, and a lifetime of holding hands. Whisper thoughts, write down blessings and send them to friends. In the world of mortals, the traces of you and me will be remembered by me for a lifetime.