A person may be worse than a fallen leaf. In daily life, I believe everyone has read many articles, some of which are descriptive. In people’s hearts, below I will share with you the prose that a person may be worse than a fallen leaf. Let’s take a look at it together. Prose 1: A person may be worse than a fallen leaf
The end of July and the beginning of August are the hottest times. The bright white trees on the river bank still had their leaves curled up in the evening. Not because of drought, but because of excessive heat.
It rained in the evening and the weather became much cooler. Walking along the river bank is like walking on a ray of coolness. The wind suddenly blew through the bright white tree, and the green leaves seemed to cover the shade, but a yellow leaf fell. Along the direction of the wind, yellow leaves clung to the dirt road along the river bank, half flying and half floating. Like a leader, leading the steps forward.
Until the river bank was separated by a bridge, the leaf fell into the river and turned into a boat, drifting along the direction of the river and out of sight.
Sitting on the river bank, I suddenly remembered that a person’s life is actually just a falling leaf. Just like the people who became friends through chance encounters in their youth left the world early. You didn't know he was gone, you thought he was still alive. When you occasionally hear that he has been dead for more than ten years, the feeling is similar to seeing a leaf that fell prematurely.
The day before yesterday, Jiyuan essayist Ge Daoji reprinted a catalog. I sent him a note asking Jiyuan novelist Niu Zigeng. He replied to the note saying: Niu Zigeng is a literary symbol of Jiyuan and has been dead for more than ten years.
This is how people are, you don’t know that they are dead, but for you, they are alive. When you know he's dead, he's really dead.
In the autumn of 1984, I was organizing "Selected Prose Issues" at "Running" in Zhengzhou, opposite the office of the "Running" novel group. One afternoon, I heard the sound of a quarrel coming from the "Running" novel group. A thick bass was chatting passionately with several people. After the quarrel, I heard that the bass was written by Niu Zigeng and Jiyuan.
People who write in local areas, whether they are writing novels, poems, or essays, are generally respectful when they come to the editorial office. There are some who bow their heads and some who are sanctimonious. There are not many authors like Niu Zigeng who quarrel with editors and say that editors don’t understand novels. Maybe this one is the one I met.
In the 1980s, I met Niu Zigeng during a pen conference in Jiyuan. At that time, Wangwu Mountain in Jiyuan had not yet been developed into a tourist attraction, and there was no obvious road to reach Nantianmen, the highest peak of Wangwu Mountain. One evening, Niu Zigeng said, "Shall we go to Wangwu Mountain?"
The two of us walked toward Wangwu Mountain under the setting sun. I remember that there was a huge ginkgo tree at the bend of a canyon. The roots of the tree protruded out and were dozens of square meters in size. Niu Zigeng and I sat on the roots of a tree to rest, and it was getting dark. Niu Zigeng said: "We have to stay one night on the mountainside before we can climb to the Nantianmen tomorrow morning."
There are three dilapidated temples on the mountainside of Wangwu Mountain, and a forest guard worker lives in them. He let us live on a bed made of wooden sticks. Through the window, we could see the peak of Wangwu Mountain in the moonlight. There is a mountain spring not far outside the house, falling along a cliff, scattering the quiet sound of the mountain stream waterfall. Niu Zigeng said: "Let's go find the waterfall?"
We followed the path in front of the temple and followed the sound to find the waterfall. The moonlight passed through the waterfall and passed through it, turning the mountain waterfall into beige. The water splashed by the waterfall fell delicately on our faces, refreshing and refreshing. Surrounded by boundless mountain peaks and oak trees, boundless moonlight and the sound of wind. Niu Zigeng and I sank into the boundless night of Wangwu Mountain, like water droplets scattered from one or two waterfalls, like one or two leaves wrapped in the moonlight and night wind. Wangwushan couldn't remember that we had been here in one night, but we remembered the night of Wangwushan's star-studded springs and waterfalls. Of course, I also remember a romantic man in Jiyuan - Niu Zigeng who wrote novels.
The next morning, we ate the forest ranger’s pot helmets, drank a lot of spring water, and climbed to the top of Wangwu Mountain, Nantianmen. The ruined temples are grand in scale and still reveal the prosperity of the past. We stood under the Nantian Gate, but we couldn't find a single mark left by any former worshiper. Those stones were silent, those walls that seemed to be about to fall but insisted on standing were silent. This is the mountain that Yu Gong wanted to move away, but Yu Gong did not move him away. He is still standing here, covered with trees, with temples, flowing springs and flying waterfalls.
It was the afternoon of the second day when we returned to Jiyuan. Niu Zigeng asked me to go to a tavern to drink. We had four dishes and a bottle of wine. We were all drunk. Niu Zigeng said: "In the woods without roads, there are only a few people who go up to the top of Wangwu Mountain, but there are two of us. The myth does not say that we are Foolish Old Man, but we say that we are Foolish Old Man."
That time when Wagyuzi climbed Wangwu Mountain and spent a night on Wangwu Mountain, it became the memory of a PEN organizer. When the organizer's position was promoted and another PEN meeting was organized, I climbed onto an undeveloped mountain in Luoyang.
He smiled and said, "Don't join the pen meetings held by writers anymore. Forget it, join the Mountaineering Association." Later I wrote an essay "Caressing the Han Dynasty", and the second section was about me and King Niu Zigeng. The feeling of house mountain.
Many years passed by, and when I asked about Niu Zigeng again, he had passed away more than ten years ago. Jiyuan is still there, and it is not a county town, but a prefecture-level city. Wangwushan is still there, Nantianmen is still there, and the temples have probably been rebuilt. Even if I go to Nantianmen again, I will no longer see Niuzigeng, and I will not be able to find the moonlight, the sound of springs and waterfalls in the middle of the night. Confucius said: The deceased is like a man. This can be said not only by the river, but also in the mountains, by the spring, and in front of the waterfall. Everything that has passed away will never come back again. Once you think of it accidentally, you still have a feeling of cherishing it. This deceased person will be regarded as a distant friend. It is a joy to have friends come from afar, and to have friends from far away is to miss a friend who has passed away, but sometimes it is just a pity.
Sitting alone in front of the window, the half-moon is like a mirror, and one can almost hear the sound of the moonlight. In fact, there is no sound in the moonlight, only the sound of the leaf falling on the river bank. Life is probably the same as a falling leaf, but if you think about it carefully, it is very different. After the leaves have fallen, the tree remains, and new leaves will grow next year and continue to fall. And once a person falls, he falls completely, and there is no chance for a new person to grow and continue to fall. In the sense of life, at some point, a person may be worse than a fallen leaf.
In his later years, Mao Zedong was fond of "Ode to a Dead Tree" and often recited: "In the past, willows were planted in the south of Han Dynasty; now they are crumbling, and they are desolate in the rivers and lakes. The trees are like this, how can people be embarrassed!" Leader So, why are we just mortals? Man may be worse than a fallen leaf. Prose 2
Beautiful prose of fallen leaves
I noticed it when I was walking on the road in spring.
It is a leaf, to be precise, it is a Paulownia leaf. It stands erect on the top of the huge paulownia tree outside my window on the fourth floor. It grows at the end of the treetop, and the treetop stretches sideways toward the window of my house. Standing at the window and looking out, I felt that I was very close to the leaf.
I don’t know, but in order to avoid something, I am always used to closing myself in white walls on all sides. However, I would walk to that window from time to time every day, lift a corner of the curtain, and take a peek at the world outside. What fell into my field of vision outside was still the intense light, floating dust, and a group of chirping insects.
Sometimes, I blame myself, why do I peek outside. There was a tremor in my heart.
I blame myself, but I will still walk to the window from time to time. That day, I suddenly discovered that small and tender leaf. Unexpectedly, that leaf became a wisp of tempting hope in my chest, but this hope made me a little confused and stunned. But from then on, I finally had a reason to walk to the window more often. Later, when I think back, I feel that the light that day was a little softer. The leaf stood in the soft white light, emerald green, and the body that had not yet grown up had clear veins.
It should be after a scorching flower ceremony, that leaf, carrying me behind its back, sprouted its life in the strong wind. Yes, the wind is very strong in spring, sometimes from the south, sometimes from the north, mixed with distant sand grains, but the leaf doesn't care at all. There was another strong wind, and I was a little worried. Wouldn't those tender leaves be blown down by the wind? My worry was not without reason. At night, I heard the wind roaring wildly in the dark, crashing from one tree to another, and rushing from one stone to another. I was even more worried and couldn't sleep soundly all night. In the early morning, when the sky was just getting bright, I hurriedly ran to the window and opened the curtains. In the misty morning mist, the leaf not only did not fall, but actually grew much stronger. It stood on the treetops and became even more beautiful. .
I am used to looking outside every day, and I can’t think of any other reason. Maybe, just for that leaf.
The spring wind comes and leaves quickly. When they travel far away, they never forget to take the spring with them. That leaf has long been cultivated into dark green. Abandoned by spring, it does not know how to miss and cry. It is still standing at the tip of the treetop. Behind it, there are naturally many brothers and sisters, crowded together. Together, in a dark green color, they swayed together like a ballet.
A drenching rain, another drenching rain. Summer is like this, always laughing and crying, crying and laughing, and the days are turning page by page in this sultry heat of crying, laughing, and crying. No matter how violent the rain is, it has no effect on that leaf. With a cold glance, it is even more refreshed after the rain, and it also has some glistening moisture. A circle of water droplets sticks to the tip of the leaf, giving it a cool light. The sight that shines into my eyes seems to have given birth to many cold eyes overlooking the world.
That day, I heard the high-pitched sound of cicadas. Looking through the window, a man in hidden clothes was inserting a long pointed needle into the handle of the leaf bit by bit. With a chill in my heart, I simply opened the curtains, pushed open the rusty and heavy window sash, and subconsciously waved my arms. Even though his arms were sore, the cicada was still lying on his stomach, as if he had absorbed the tempting fruit regardless of the risk of his life.
I wonder, will the leaves die? One day, two days... A few days passed, and I saw that the leaf was not dead. In a trance, it had indeed turned into a brand new green fruit, and gently slipped into my chest.
I can’t remember the day when the gray magpie began to frequently visit the paulownia tree with its full leaves. At first it was one, then several, and then it was a group. Magpies are auspicious birds, I know. The presence of the magpies gave the wind blowing through the window a familiar yet vaguely remembered atmosphere. They are going to make a nest here. Looking forward to and thinking about how I can be their neighbor.
I saw that magpie again, or another magpie, with its wings falling lightly, and then jumping lightly to the branch extending towards the window, fluffing its feathers, holding the leaf in its mouth, and pointing it towards the window. , shouted. Then, they circled around and said goodbye.
After all, the magpies did not build their nests in the trees.
In the mornings I look forward to, in the dusk I regret, in the days I regret and look forward to, I will still often go to the window and gaze briefly at that leaf.
On a bright afternoon, I discovered that the leaf was losing its dark green color and was now tinged with a slight yellow color.
The wind is coming again. It's the autumn wind, and its sound is so distant, as if it's traveling through the length of a season. One piece, two pieces, the wind began to gently pick the yellowing leaves.
Another afternoon. The late autumn sunshine has removed the unbearable intensity. That leaf, which I read as a leaf covered in old yellow, is being gently picked off by a gust of wind, just like picking off a ripe leaf. fruit. Having lost its support, it looked hesitant and frightened, as if it wanted to catch something. As I was about to stretch out my arm, I heard a voice saying to it: Open your wings.
I hurriedly looked out the window. That fallen leaf was probably held up by a shadowless cloud, swaying like a sail. I firmly believe that it has spread its wings and let go of its hands, abandoning the hesitation and fear just now. I followed it, watching it draw a long and beautiful arc calmly, and then, through the thickness of this ocher-yellow autumn, slowly disappear into a lonely and graceful posture.
There was a feeling of emptiness in my heart, but also a hint of untimely joy. It finally has its own posture and direction.
For a moment, I heard the sound of two seasons colliding outside the window.
Subconsciously, I hurriedly went downstairs and followed the path I was used to walking. I've walked that path too many times, but it's just a little unfamiliar and my impression is vague. Searching all the way alone. I saw that, separated by a wall, there were colorful fallen leaves.
Another gust of late autumn wind is coming, clear and wanton, and another autumn sound is playing in the air. I whispered to the air: Open your wings, this is your time to be free. You can see that it may be ocher yellow, or crimson, or even mixed with a little dry, but they are all like a butterfly that has just emerged from the cocoon, carefully traveling through a cycle of sprouting, green, withered and withered. Under the autumn sun, they shine with sparkling light, dancing briefly loosely and freely, refusing to fall easily.
I don’t want to fall down easily, but I will fall down eventually.
The leaves are very light, very light, and the sound of falling to the ground is very heavy.
The earth is in pain.
Return your sight to the vastness in the distance. I saw a fallen leaf in the long wind, like a sail sailing farther and farther, lonely and beautiful.