Floating Sad Prose 1
Is it necessary to travel through thousands of rivers and mountains, scattering the lights and blurring, so that the floating mist and rain will no longer be lonely, and the sandy years will no longer flow, at dusk The steps I walked down no longer wandered anymore!
Stop at the corner of the world. Looking back, that fleeting figure has disappeared in every inadvertent moment of every turn, to the other shore that may not be touched in this life.
Looking back again, the peach blossoms of the past are dyeing the mountains and forests red again, and the willows that have passed through the years are once again green in the south of the Yangtze River! He just sighed and said, "People are not replaced by things." When the prosperity is gone and the autumn wind sweeps away the golden yellow all over the ground, who will pick it up and run away in panic? The wind fills the building and makes people look haggard. The melancholy tonight has nothing to do with the wind and the moon. That is the sadness that the wind has not forgotten.
Recalling the past is filled with sadness. Once upon a time, I wanted to pick up a pot of turbid wine, hold a sword in the world of mortals, watch the various aspects of life, and laugh at the fact that everyone in the world is drunk but I am the only one awake! It's unworthy that time flies by, thousands of sails are gone, and hundreds of flowers are withered! Who stands on the other side of the cloud and laughs at the bitterness of the past and the past, and who sheds the tears from his eyes into the sky!
It is destined that the footsteps of this life can only wander, the restless soul can only be buried, and the sunset ahead is destined to be out of reach. Ask, who is it, still unwilling and still hoping? Waiting for a ray of sunshine? Or a cup of confidant? Looking through the clouds, the afterimages are gradually fading, but the wind is still wandering.
Take a pot of sake and stroll at the end of the dusk, pretending to hold every cloud in your sleeve. The fluttering flying flowers fell lightly on the thin shoulders. Stop, lower your eyebrows, and raise your head again. No need to ask in detail, that is its silent desolation! With the alternation of the four seasons, perhaps, in the moment you frown, they have disappeared! Just like the golden years that cannot be grasped, when you look back suddenly, your temples have turned into frost.
Lying drunk in the arms of the wind, looking up at the sky, tears melting into the glacier. How should I hold on to the fleeting years at my fingertips and travel through reincarnation and across centuries? How can I retain the silhouette of the sunset as it fades away? How should I pay homage to the withering fragrance all over the mountain? Where should the footsteps drift in the dim shadow of tomorrow... Wandering Sad Prose 2
The cold wind and drizzle fell all over the city, the leaves fell like feathers, and the night was desolate. Listening to the light sound of the glass, the autumn wind is cool, and the dream is flowing.
In late autumn, everything has changed. Autumn is my favorite season, and it is always full of sadness. In this season, I like to walk alone, wandering in the streets and alleys to browse the scenery, and I also like to quietly watch all the changes in the world. The people I pass by are all destined people who have nothing to do with me.
I really like to see the fallen leaves all over the ground in autumn. Those falling leaves not only give people a sense of withering, but also the romance in dreams is swaying. The golden ground is full of gold, giving us far more than just a scenery. , and there are too many exclamations.
I also like autumn nights. In the cool night breeze, turn on the soft lights, drink a cup of coffee, listen to dreamy music, read a book, and let the aroma of coffee permeate the whole place. room, let the wonderful music take you into the book. Enjoy the loneliness and quietness in the hustle and bustle, vent your feelings wantonly, think about the short and light life, remove all false appearances, only two things are real: the present and the future. The rest is not worth bothering with. It is enough for me to be accompanied by music and books. I am only accompanied by them, and I am not afraid of anyone seeing me crying or laughing.
Suddenly I realized that I was used to such a state, and it had nothing to do with loneliness. Maybe at the beginning, I would touch the edge of loneliness, but as time goes by, I will just get used to it. This is just a kind of Adaptation, nothing more.
I remember that every autumn, the leaves on many trees begin to turn yellow and then fall. In late autumn and winter, the leaves on the trees are almost gone, but I still find that some leaves still hang. On the branches, swaying lonely in the cold wind, these leaves swaying lonely in the cold wind always make me feel something. They are so different. They are stubborn and do not want to go with the flow. The reason why they do not want to leave the branches is because a little bird did not come back here and failed to fulfill the original agreement? So the leaves just stay in place. Waiting for it, it is afraid that once it leaves, the birds will not be able to find it easily and will miss it.
Hey! I’m thinking wildly again, and I’m still in a daze. Last night was a different night than usual. I couldn't sleep for no reason. It's already three o'clock in the morning, and I still can't sleep. I have a good habit of lying in bed and reading a book before falling asleep after a while. But tonight I don’t know why, I can’t do it no matter what. Time passed minute by minute, and I still didn't feel sleepy at all. My head was constantly thinking, and many things were rushing in.
I told myself that this was not okay, and I couldn't think about it anymore. I closed my eyes hard, but those complicated thoughts kept getting into my head, and my efforts were in vain. Although my head is groggy, my eyes are stimulated by my ears and my heart is stimulated by my thoughts. I don’t know why, I really had insomnia last night!
Autumn has been deeply rooted in the hearts of the people. Winter will not be far away.
Although thousands of drops of rain fall, it is still difficult to clear the air of haze, and even if the heart is as bright as a cup of tea, it is difficult to feel comfortable in the world! The drizzle falls lightly on the stone steps, there is no melancholy, only a slight coolness, but Unable to clean it up, only the heart feels slightly hot, but the drifting turns into mourning in an instant! The drifting sad prose 3
The horizontal flute blows the years, and the oblique strokes carve the wind and dust.
Yuyun, the peach leaves convey feelings, and the willow silk conveys hatred. Nowadays, only the yellow leaves are gone, but the purple swallows are not returning. A handful of floating clouds bid farewell to old dreams. The last thing is that the setting sun is old, the passion is gone, and the scene is desolate, which makes people sad.
The baby is learning to walk on the street and is happy, and the old man is playing leisurely with the willows under the cold. There is no time to listen to the gentle attachment of the morning breeze, no time to bask in the warm light of the afternoon, time has quietly turned the sky late. I opened the window and looked into the distance. I saw the streets as usual, two or three gusts of wind, and seven or eight hurried shadows. Feeling quite lonely, I actually forgot to put my thoughts away and collect them.
About dusk, I was about to fall. The setting sun, with a hint of desolation in its tranquility, gradually lengthened my figure. Unknowingly, years have gone by far. We have seen birth, old age, sickness and death in the annual rings, and we have also experienced joys and sorrows in the annual rings. We can squander a passionate period of time, but it is difficult to refuse the journey of time gradually traveling farther in the wind.
It is said that the wind is lonely. Because it has experienced four seasons of wandering, blowing through thousands of scenery, but in the end no one is willing to stay for it. What a gentle breeze, but it can only be someone else's turn, a flick of gentleness on their sleeves, or an episode among the flowers and trees of the world. The so-called joke of fate, that's all.
About dusk, the wind passed by and swayed the curtains. I was lonely and thinking about it. No matter how colorful the lives of most people are, no matter whether my destiny is like the wind, I still look forward to a pure and beautiful smile blooming for me in the unknown future, and a vision to comfort me in my ordinary life. That touch of softness.
Life becomes meaningful because of years, and years are paranoid because of worries. If we say that the passage of time is a process of leaping and extending life, those attachments that linger in the years are like an old man inscribed on a monument, exposed to the suffocating silence in the scorching sun
After Big right and wrong, after all the twists and turns in the world of mortals, you finally understand that there are some things that you wait until you want to say, only to realize that no one is here to listen to you; there is someone who is waiting for you to love, but you find that he has quietly gone away; there are some things that are waiting for you to want to go. If you do it, you have lost the appropriate time and opportunity.
The pulse of fate is always twisting and turning in a combination of circumstances. The drifting past is unbearable to look back on, and is pale and full of confusion. How many smiles are followed by tears; how many times are moved, but also accompanied by pain. I thought of it inadvertently, but my face was filled with tears, which made me sad.
The years are like the wind, and the wind passes without leaving a trace; the past is like a dream, and the dream becomes empty. Some friendships are not something you just want to lose your liver and gallbladder and shatter your body into pieces. I have watched the clouds bloom quietly, I have chased dreams hard, I never expected to pursue them to the end, but it was just a water moon, there is no basis for it, I am intoxicated with colorful dreams and I don’t know how to return, I just fall into the abyss of love, and my heart is not settled.
Nowadays, several old friends in the college have lost contact with each other after traveling to different places to make a living. They can only say a word in silence, hoping to meet again. If I meet him in the morning, I will share a cup of wine with all my friends. I will never come home until I get drunk. After waking up, we can each look for a future and jump into the world of fame and fortune with no regrets.
The sound of the transverse flute is cool, the wind blows my throat, and I miss the dim moon by the pool where I used to live, thinking about it again and again. The old friend has gone far away and has no time to return, and I have forgotten what I said back then. Once upon a time, I walked through lonely joys and sorrows without any regrets; now, on both sides of the road and bridge, I have lost a lot along the way, leaving only a few worries in my heart with nowhere to put them. At this time, after thinking so much, it turns out that I am already tired. How nice it would be to just sit through the years and grow old in this way
The empty cup is lonely, and the clutch is full; at this time, my mood is, It comes with wind and rain. How many more episodes of drunkenness, sadness, and regret? Maybe I will feel uncomfortable when I read these words many years later, but writing them down now makes me so sad. So tired, maybe, you will get tired if you carry too much weight. How I wish I could be like this, when the rain passes through the green mountains and forests, and the tide passes through the water, the clouds are level; instead of being like this, the wine overwhelms the vulgar and melancholy, and the arrogance of the hero is short.
Floating in the long river of time, holding a bamboo pennant, carrying your dreams and my love, watching the time fly by, the fragrance disappears without a trace. A year of lovesickness is as long as the dream, and the wild geese come and go silently. I wish I could live a simple life in an ordinary and stable way. From then on, I will fight against my fate with my years. I will express my longing for the rest of my life with my longing. I will express my longing in the wind and rain. I will drift away with my bald notes. A sad essay about the wandering journey back home 4
Time flies like a flower, and when it is time to wither, it will drift with the wind. But the fleeting time has never passed, and it has always lingered in my heart. The wind blows the fleeting flowers like flowers floating in the heart. When will they fall into mud, dust to dust, soil to soil, and bury everything in the soil of the past?
Time flies by like water, and I try to recall its origin. I searched all the way, but couldn't find the source. I just relived the joys and sorrows I experienced in the past over and over again, and I couldn't extricate myself from the separation and miss. Although there are moments of joy and happiness mixed in, it has been suppressed by layers of sadness at the bottom. I have to uncover the scars of the past layer by layer in order to savor those short-term sweetness and warmth.
The wind of time has blown away the fleeting flowers that once bloomed. Pieces of once delicate petals and once green leaves are floating in the wind, withered and yellow, and only the bright and vivid beauty of the past can be vaguely found. Although the passing years are no longer beautiful, it is the proof of my journey along the way. It has the traces of my coming to this world and records everything I have experienced in this life. I am powerless to stop time from disrupting my fleeting life, but those memory fragments that remain in the wind of time are something I cannot give up.
I am not qualified to blame time for being ruthless, but I can’t help but resent that time forces me to move forward, leaving me with no time to retain more memory fragments, and unable to piece together a complete fleeting time, so that my fleeting time Fragmented. The wind blows like flowers and floats in my heart. Maybe one day the fragments of the fleeting time that stay in my heart will slowly disappear, leaving only faint scars, letting me know that I have been hurt and shed tears, but I will not remember those scar records. What a sad past. Everything will be buried in the past under the blow of time, no longer remembered, no longer sad... Wandering Sad Prose 5
Sometimes things are thought to have become calm; some people think that they have already happened. Erase from memory. In fact, whether it is near or far, clear or blurry, it is all fixed at a certain point in time. In an inadvertent moment, it will suddenly jump out and touch the softness in the heart. It will make your heart feel bitter and the tears will fall. Only you know it. Still unable to get rid of the secular world, she is still the same woman who eats the fireworks of the world.
-----Inscription
I like to shuttle among the noisy crowds in strange cities. The feeling of being submerged is wonderful and my heart is quiet. There is often a feeling that a miracle will happen. Looking for the taste of the past life, in the crowd of thousands of people, I will meet you, with sudden stunning eyes, and softly say "Long time no see."
In the season of falling flowers, write your thoughts in the flying petals, let your thoughts be sent far away in the wind, and spread to the end of the world. If you remember, please pick it up. If you forget, let it go. random.
On the night of late autumn, a trace of loneliness came to my heart. I was crying again, and the bodhi tree swayed sadly in the darkness. The bells in the distant mountains add a bit of solemnity, and an autumn rain comes silently without an appointment. Just like the story between you and me, it quietly has no ending.
In the morning, the sun comes out, and the wet heart is exposed to the sun, but the warmth cannot drive away the loneliness. One meter of sunshine cannot tolerate indifference. If you don't speak, you can erase the writing in your heart that has been ironed over and over again. The rest of the road must be walked alone, just like this rain, no longer remembered, buried deep in my heart.
The wind has risen, blowing away the loneliness in my heart and the infatuation of dripping water. Joy and sadness will all pass away. I walk alone and try my best to write poetry from the ordinary.
There is still a slight pain in my heart. Mo Yan's mortal world is just a dream. Destiny comes and goes without a sound. You have your green land and I have my clear sky. Don't forget to sing into a lonely red, exhausted. Despite my strength, I still can't hold the wind with my hands, so I have to open my hands and let you fly.
There is a kind of love called letting go. If I can't give you a home, I will let my heart wait and care for you all my life. Falling in love with you is an involuntary fall. You gently spread my hand and put a piece of warmth in my heart. Thinking of you, I pick up the pen, write with my heart, and draw the ink painting that belongs to you and me with love. You are the most beautiful encounter in my life. Although it is short-lived, it leaves me with a lifelong attachment. When there is only a back figure left in attachment, and there is only a cold finger left in my heart, I can only read your former tenderness in the corner.
I remember you took me to the beach to enjoy the wind and gave me a handful of roses. The wind shook me awake. My broken heart was like petals falling in the wind. It was filled with bitterness and naked pain. You chased me. Rush. The world is dark, the eyes have lost focus, and all colors have become black and white movies. The wind swayed the night, and the rain washed away the loneliness. A person's city is filled with darkness. It turns out that promises only stay in yesterday, and it is difficult for the heart to hold on forever. Warmth turns into nostalgia, boundless attachment, where to put love, and the loneliness in the heart.
After being silent for a long time, all the colors are just black and white in my eyes. My heart is very cold, just like this morning after the autumn rain, shivering. I know that all the endings have already been written, there is no story, no warmth. A winding road, walked alone, silently. . .
I know that there is no right or wrong in love, and efforts may not necessarily bring results. When it hurts, smile and cry, and when you are tired, don’t say you are sad. You owe me in this life. Remember, pay me back twice as much in the next life.
I also know that all the people and things in this world are like the red flowers falling after the rain. No matter how flamboyant and unrestrained they once bloomed, they will eventually return to dust or drift with the water. The wind comes and the rain goes. , come and go at will, come and go, near and far. At this time, you are at the end of the world and I am at the corner of the sea. The wind and smoke are clear, and we are at peace with each other.
I only use words to write about Piao Ling until my heart aches, so that you won’t read the ice in my eyes. Wandering sad prose 6
Under the long night, every thought twitches, resting on the ripples of the broken moon, extravagant hopes bloom,
If it is lush, peel off the memory layer by layer, Folded into orange awns, the solitary lamp is still thin, and there is a faint fragrance of ink on the paper. Who is meditating, who is melancholy, and who is gliding gently on whose fingertips.
──Inscription
Catering to the wind and rain, following the blossoming and falling of flowers, I use my simple words to talk about it, and hope that the growing loneliness and confusion will dissipate. I only want to take care of the half acre of flower field that belongs to me on a long paper kite. Then, in the silence, you can appreciate the blooming flowers and lotus ponds of your life. Occasionally, you can read the oath of eternal love imprinted on a leaf like peach blossoms and flowing water, and be immersed in that person's love legend. I sit quietly in time like dust, letting the seasons wander in my brows and thoughts falling in my palms.
Facing the thin morning light, we meet by chance. The romance that should belong to the spring of March, even if it is a touch of gentleness, becomes the deep affection between the eyes, the tassels of time, the faint fragrance and sparse shadows, you are my tears.
Who is whose guest? Who is whose fault? Who will never leave whom?
I followed my thoughts and came here, looking for the green beauty of the mountain, the gentleness of the water, and the warmth and coldness of the season in the wind. Withering is the mercy of time. I am looking in the distance, at the other shore that you cannot reach when you look back, like clouds and smoke, staying in the depths of the fleeting years.
March is still young, and the greenery is first seen. The wind picks up slightly, and the gentleness that gives me a glance is like a warm light on the wrist of the season, breaking the sadness all over the ground.
Once upon a time, the charm of my mooring wind caressed the scattered flowers on the waterfront, just to cater to your tide. With the shyness of rain, I suppressed the impetuous luster, just to hold your hand. Beauty, in your world, I am willing to turn into a wisp of dust and smoke.
In the days when the rain and butterflies no longer care about the flowers,
My thoughts are like clouds and fog, as exposed as smoke,
Time has passed and memories are rejecting Old,
Peel off the dead branches and leaves, looking for your voice.
It is a river, flowing through the wilderness of the heart, stretching, like a vague shadow in the muddy eyes, either near or far, hidden or visible. Little does anyone know how much coldness has been collected before being able to be silent. It seems that humorous lines are entangled with the swaying soul. In the increasingly thinning time, waiting but not changing, waiting for the next indifference, looking back at dusk, the love has been frozen.
At this moment, love is like an inexplicable symbol, strange and inexplicable. Maybe it just doesn’t fit in this time of recovery. The sour itch, maybe not only the magnetism of the first sight has been lost, but a touch of silence and occasional annoyance, I gradually got used to it, looked at it, stayed, I don’t know how long it has passed, and the night bloomed.
I choked up more than once, questioned more than once, and finally forgave everything outside me. Maybe I was lazy, but I didn’t even have the courage to forgive myself.
I am a fish that has escaped from the ice. I am secretly happy, but I cannot escape from the depletion of the river water, so I hope to fly out of the noise and splendor.
Turning around, the rain is still melancholy, but the clouds have wandered.