A breeze took away the beauty of autumn; Looking back, the hand of time crossed the light cold of shallow winter. The withered autumn, the fragmentation of time, and the calmness and sadness of the writing season.
Time, let all the moonlight grow old and all the memories turn yellow. On a page, turn over the past red plums, with a faint fragrance, and dye your fingertips and eyebrows red.
I like this season, as if time is getting old, the cold background, rustling leaves and the sound of rain, rustling flowers and falling wind, the bells of empty mountains, crows in ancient post offices, people returning home on a snowy night, fishing alone in the cold river.
I like this season, as if the world is quiet, lively and flashy. In silence, I realized a point, penetrated a point, bred a point, more real, clearer, different from the world, and made my own appearance.
Like this season, it is like writing an ink painting, which has indifferent spirituality in the world. The scenery is old and has fleeting time. Time is getting older, and there are occasional encounters.
A ridge of ink and wash, an acre of flower fields, about an inkstone time, fine combing time, who remembers that a piece of paper falls with the wind and peach blossoms wither; Who wrote that the curtain is shallow and the cuffs are dyed green; Who broke the autumn sound and sang the clear words; Who remembers that the first snow turned white?
Blue tiles and white walls, faint morning fog, frost hanging on a tree in front of the house, lush vegetable fields behind the house, Chinese cabbage, radish, Chinese cabbage, lettuce and garlic seedlings looming. In winter in the south, the bleak room is somewhat fresh, desolate and somewhat washed by lead.
The distant mountains are looming in the fog, and the sun shines through the mist, leaning against the mountains and rivers. The blurred mountain village is like an ink painting, with a distant artistic conception, rippling in the branches of the season.
I met a warm and timeless page, with a silent past, a string of hooves, a waiting in the depths of a hundred flowers, a cool night, a pot of warm tea, a cold flower and a person returning from a snowy night.
I always thought that in this cold season, we should make a pot of tea, make an appointment and invite old friends to catch up.
I always think that in this silent festival, we should write a letter to ourselves, to the past and to time.
The writing of our life will always leave different scenery. There is always inexplicable joy and expectation for the circulation of seasons. I look forward to meeting a pool of spring water, falling in love with a wind and a lotus, relying on a mountain and a moon, and being with the snow at the beginning of a trip.
Time is always gentle. We walk in this world, passing by many mountains and rivers, drawing bridges of willows and counting the good old days. Finally, our hearts are still like a piece of Leng Xue. We can guard an old apricot and a half-garden spring leek in front of the old house.
Since then, the curtain of the years has been covered, and the red furnace brew tea has made the taste of the world light and boiling.
From then on, while breaking the inkstone, clearing the window, passing away and being warm.
Where is the world of mortals going? A person who has been in the world for a long time will gradually get used to the alternation of cold and warm seasons, the indifference of human feelings and the lightness of the world, the joys and sorrows of the world, and the birth, illness and death of the elderly.
This habit is not numbness or indifference, but a cocoon that naturally grows after experiencing the world. This is Qian Fan's liberation and compassion.
I like this season, not only because of moonlight and dusk, faint fragrance, endless rivers and mountains, flowers and snow shadows. Just because, after Qian Fan is tired, his heart is full of vegetation and compassion, and spring scenery is half a room.
Time is a memory. Spring flowers and autumn moon seem to arrive as scheduled every year, but there is no repeated scenery.
In the context of the season, the chapters on cold and warm have already been described; In the cycle of life, it has long been doomed to rise and fall.
Time goes by, fireworks are fleeting, years go by, and silence returns.
I don't know when, I no longer have the idea of wandering, I no longer have the heart of being displaced, I just want to find a city and a person to grow old in ordinary alleys and courtyards.
Whether it is sunny or rainy, whether it is warm or windy in spring, the leaves that bloom and fall are the most beautiful scenery in the depths of time.
Whether wandering or chic, whether meeting and holding hands or turning away, those lost sadness or happiness are just for a wordless value.
The clock can go back to the original point, but not yesterday. Feelings can go back to the starting point, but it is not as expensive as the rest of my life. Please cherish that and forget the sadness of the years.
Autumn has become a story, winter has become a landscape, and autumn is over. Today in beginning of winter, I wish you cold weather, warm clothes, cold heart and warm people!
May you be honest with beautiful things; Chatting with beautiful people.
May you have clothes to wear in cold weather, and someone warm in cold weather. May you meet your lover, and may you have a happy city with warm colors floating for the rest of your life.