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All works of Shi Tiesheng and all works of Zhou.
Words are like your thin love clothes.
In the silent night, only ancient notes are jumping in my ears. These notes, like strings made of moonlight, are gently bounced by the breeze and drizzle. In a trance, I see my face full of vicissitudes and the faint sadness hidden behind me.
Words are like your thin love clothes, so I sit alone in front of the screen and continue to write about you, writing that your back is fading away, writing down empty feelings and these lonely sentences. A sigh in the moonlight, just because I don't want to meet again when I am old, I hope you only have my beauty in your heart. Whenever you leave here, please don't tell me and don't extinguish your attachment. I can't stand your gentle blow any longer. Don't let my high spirits suddenly ruin me. Even if there is no love, please let me live in a dream. This dream is like you, with me all my life. I will use words to record those youthful memories and make the story gorgeous. Miss you, miss you, are so beautiful, even if the story has no ending, I am used to being an episode in your life.
"How are you?" In the moonlight, in the wind and rain, I repeated this sentence countless times. Although the distance between us has faded in the soft waves of years, I still often think of you every silent night and often grab my mobile phone for no reason to see if there is any news from you. I want to dial this number and listen to your voice. That's all. Every day goes by like this, counting how many days I haven't heard from you.
On a special day, I miss you very much and want to tell you that I miss you. Mobile phones that have been unplugged again and again have been shelved and stripped again and again. Heart, the pain you dyed, burns itself like a flame, and the sour heart, like falling drizzle, leaves traces on the glass of your windowsill. Pick up the pen again and again, write about you again and again, miss your ink again and again, just like a steel needle stuck in my heart, on the world of mortals, will we meet again? At that time, will you have traces of years in your eyes?
In this gentle night wind, when the deep feelings disperse, you turn my obsession deeply with smart eyes, let your thoughts slowly penetrate the empty valley, dance solo for yourself, and dance the yearning and longing that grew in silence into the most beautiful and moving serenade!
A gentleman's way must be dripping with red dust and rain. If the heart is like a dream, the pen and ink like a dream are inserted with flying wings, and the fragrance of Mo Yun is scattered on the road dancing with maple leaves in the moonlight. Only the passion of magma jet can calm down and taste the astringency of Kuding tea.
Butterflies break into flowers, but flowers fly with the wind. This untouchable pain is full of lonely tears. The memory of tonight, with pale ripples, permeates the text. I don't know what to weave, the tearless melody of acacia. I don't know when the clouds between the eyebrows will fall to the horizon and splash a little warmth. Write the past into the bitterness of old dreams, and your figure gently touches my heartstrings and meets the faint youth and homesickness.
Lightly cover the lonely door and let thoughts flow, but in this bitterness, another kind of sweetness is blended. Fireworks are easy to disperse, but I still expect you to write down your thoughts and concerns. I will make it my amulet and stick it in my heart day and night.
The thin love dress you tapestry for me, like misty rain, is soft and delicate, holding my youth and Ying Ying, and falling into the moment of sunset glow dyeing. Thin love clothes cover messy thoughts, tired body, beautiful melancholy and faint heart music. With my gentle hand, gently wipe away the pain you fell in your dream. At this moment, the love dress that has been rubbed and swept away is warmly releasing the intoxicating serenade.
Tonight, I hung a thin love coat embroidered with words on the screen, which filled my eyes and left a screen full of sadness, carving it into the saddest wind. Blocked memories instantly become the way home for your soul. In this life, I don't want to owe you a kiss or a tear. I only hope that when I look back, you will leave me a warm smile.
As time goes on, it reminds me of everything.
As early as I was a teenager, I knew that as long as I was over 20, my age would be as fast as turning pages. Sometimes my life is like a flower that once bloomed, and my life is as short as a dream. If I can't even have a vigorous love, how long can I wait? As time goes by, my smoky face still can't be reflected.
Real life cannot be short of ups and downs, and pain and sadness should not be rejected. Hate is the inertia of the power of love, and love is sometimes encouraged by greed and blindness. Perhaps, as Wang Guozhen said, "Happiness is the post of life, and pain is the voyage of life." Love doesn't have to end in the end, but it does mean something to the living!
In fact, some people will never forget it even if they spend a lifetime, because there is no beginning, so naturally there will be no end, just like the grass grows in spring and the leaves fall in autumn. Silence will eventually be captured by our clear pupils, and it is destined to fall between your eyes and mine. It is always reminded by years, and I just want to find my destiny on the road for the rest of my life.
I think, only those who really know how to love will know that loving someone is not because of who the other person is, but because of who I am when I am alone with her. Even after leaving, her tearful eyes have disappeared from the naughty and clever appearance, but her worried eyes are deeply imprinted in my heart. Now, where is she and what is she doing? I don't know, no matter how frivolous I am, I can't escape being frozen by the cold wind in this lonely night.
When we were young, we didn't understand love, but we just gave the truest and purest emotion. Today, we yearn for dullness, but it is difficult to find someone who can accompany us to lead an ordinary life.
Time flies, spring goes to Qiu Lai, summer flowers are damaged, and autumn water wears through the heart. In fact, a paragraph of text has accompanied me through the stormy waves like water, but every word has stained my hesitation. I once drew a blueprint about two people for my dream. In the beautiful garden, there are no boundaries, no constraints, no tears and no noise. Birds are singing and flowers are blooming. However, the years are still spreading stories bit by bit, pulling themselves farther and farther away from their dreams. It doesn't allow anyone to stay for a moment.
Everyone sticks to an unknown belief in his heart, which is a seed buried in his heart, caring for it, so that he will not feel lonely at least in the future. When he experienced the wind and rain, experienced the inner tremor, the seeds sprouted and took root in his heart, and the last flower was not necessarily a rose!
And I, still standing silently in my own story, don't smell August flowers, don't appreciate plum blossoms in the middle of winter, just stand in the cycle of the four seasons with a seeking attitude, that's all,,,,
There will be a bright future one day.
Helpless and unbearable, the generous whisper in my heart suddenly condensed in the rainy morning. The melancholy inexplicably born in the vast sea of people gradually accumulated into a kind of anger, breaking the silent dusk. Suddenly, the myriad flows of life have nothing to say. At the end of the mountain, there are always surprises waiting, just because of our meager time, with sober expectations, we don't stay or be empty.
A clear Shui Ze in the journey of life, like a nightmare, reflects the distant and silent clear sky, a deep expectation, a long journey and a sudden expectation. Support Lang Lang to empty the whole film.
"I am not busy coming, I am not busy going, and I don't sit still; Don't worry about your work, and don't worry about doing it again. Gains and losses are nothing more than heaven. " Your eyes are not locked, but your heart is stuck. Lost in the hazy silence, life is like the sea, how can the hope contained in the boat of life run aground in the mud beach and sink into the years? We look around with that expectation and experience traumatic memories again and again in silence. My heart is tired, my brain is confused, I start to panic, and everything is sparse; My heart was numb, the tree died, and I began to be silent. Everything was asleep, but I missed the moment when the sunrise overcame the darkness: what arched was new hope.
I always stubbornly believe that there are always surprises waiting, and there are always bright times: waiting for me and avoiding me.
Perhaps it is because we have waited too long, expected too little and have no enthusiasm for the "turning point". Having suffered numerous failures, depravities and depravities, I feel sad and melancholy, just like a stone thrown in a boiling fire, leaving only ashes in the end, but forgetting that the phoenix was buried in it-born in the ashes and died in the ashes.
I will never compromise. I believe that there will always be a bright future and there will always be surprises waiting. We passed the post called Memory, boarded the platform of memory, flew over the swamp of fantasy, crossed the jungle called Confusion, looked forward to, trudged to the top of the mountain called Hope, and saw the village called opportunity and turning point that we yearned for. Those gloomy and heavy burdens wash away dirty and lost hearts in the winding with clear outline. I saw it! I saw it. ..................
A dignified life, penetrating the sea of clouds and distant scenery with the attitude of a meteorite, abandons all melancholy and helplessness, and is desolate and profound. I believe that there will always be a bright future, there will always be surprises waiting, and I will keep running. ...
The train of love is empty/Pan Renmu
For more than 50 years, one thing I cherish most is the records of my classmates who graduated from high school, many of which can only be written by young people. Every time I look at the exhibition, I feel the surging waves lapping on the shore. A classmate left a message to the classmate nicknamed "locomotive": "Good locomotive, you drove away in a good car!" How simple and rich! A word is a song of life.
The generous creator gives everyone a car full of good things, the content may be slightly different, basically the same.
At that time, I also had a car full of good things: youth, health, wisdom, relatives, friends, good appetite and decent appearance. The train of life, so naturally forward. At that time, if you barely said you had any outlook on life, it was probably a happy outlook on life.
It was not until a little longer, or when I met a mountain or a torrent, that I realized that the train was not going well all the way. I have to run at full speed and refuel before I can drive there. The outlook on life in this period is a philosophy of struggle.
Then one day, I found that the weight of the train was reduced, and I suddenly understood that the creator was not so generous. He is actually very cunning. My train left, and he took the good things he gave me: youth was gone, health declined, relatives died, friends were far away, and my train was almost empty. The only thing he can't take away but still keeps is love and everything that comes from love; Because love is what you create, distribute and load. Love is a kind of thing, bright and colorful, growing constantly. If you don't give up, you can continue, and the train of life will never be empty. But this kind of love does not only refer to the love between men and women. The disadvantage of us women is that we often attach too much importance to love and regard it as the only truth in life. This is true, but it is not the only one. The only result is that once the train loses its balance, it will lose its balance and even roll over. The love mentioned here refers to the love for work arising from the collection of all kinds of love. The outlook on life at this stage can be called love outlook on life.
From the perspective of life as morning dew, there is not much difference between youth and honesty. A person has no love, selfishness or arrogance in his heart, although he is young and old; On the contrary, although old and young, even if "the road ahead will be inclined", there will be a realm of "wild flowers singing birds like spring".
Out of the window/king
Looking out my bedroom window, I can see a tall hibiscus tree. On that spring day when the smoke trees are jagged, the red dots are really charming. Touched my inspiration and stirred up my literary thoughts. Over time, I actually took this "neighbor" standing opposite the window as my confidant.
However, one morning, I looked through the window and suddenly found that a storm last night had eroded it beyond recognition. Suddenly, a sadness of "falling flowers" passed through my heart! I can't help feeling that I stumbled on the road of life, experienced many twists and turns and lost many beloved friends again and again. Isn't life like a flower in the wind? !
After a while, it gradually faded. Once, when I came back from the countryside, I felt that the indoor air was a little dull. When I opened the window inadvertently, I suddenly felt a bright eye: a piece of red bougainvillea caught my eye, and it was frozen under the setting sun. The unexpected surprise made me almost unable to control myself. I'm surprised. Why didn't I find this budding unyielding life behind death?
Yes, the last petal of hibiscus has fallen, and people's praise for it has been forgotten in the past memory, but bougainvillea has grown up and is as red as fire, showing people the change and continuation of life.
Who can say that gains and losses are not symphonies?
I stood in front of the window for a long time and deeply realized that there is no four-point scenery in life. As long as your heart is always facing the sun, you will find that every morning there will be a beautiful and hazy vision rising in front of your window, and the world will always convey the prelude of hope.
Hard wasteland
Hard wasteland (1), endless and gray, so simple that there is not even a wrinkle; Sadness, emptiness, desolation and cold; Under the lead dome. On the wasteland stood a tall old man: bony, with a bronzed face and no beard; The tall old man stood there like a bare tree. His eyes are as cold as the wilderness and the sky; The nose is like a knife and hard as an axe; Muscles are as rough as desolate land; Lips are not as thick as the blade of a sword. There are three stiff, thin and poor children standing beside the old man: three poor children are shivering, and the old man is cold and supercilious, just like the character of that hard wasteland. The old man has a small seed in his hand. The other hand, stretching out the index finger, poked at the air like something made of bronze. At this time, he grabbed a child's flabby neck, showed him the seeds in his hand, and said to him in a hail-like voice, "Dig a hole and plant it." Then put down the trembling body, and the child plopped down on the hard wasteland like a small bag full of pebbles.
"Dad," sobbed the child, "everything is bare and hard. How should I plan? " "Chew with your teeth.
"This is a hail of voice answer; He raised one foot and put it on the child's weak neck; Poor boy, his teeth rattle and gnaw at the surface of the rock, just like sharpening a knife on a stone; So for a long time, a long time; The child finally dug a skull-sized hole in the rock; Then chew, chew, with a faint moan; The poor child is gnawing at the old man's foot. The old man is as cold as ice and as motionless as a hard wasteland.
When the hole reached the required depth, the old man raised his feet. Anyone who visits its territory will feel even more sad, because this child is still a child and has white hair; The old man kicked him aside, and then mentioned the second child, who trembled and witnessed the whole process in front of him.
"Leave the soil to the seeds." The old man said to him.
"Dad," the child asked timidly, "where is the dirt?" "There is wind. Pick up soil in the wind. " The old man replied, breaking the child's poor chin with his thumb and forefinger: the child is facing the wind; Gather the dust flying in the wind with your tongue and throat, and then spit out the irrelevant powder; After a long time, the old man stood motionless on the wasteland, neither anxious nor impatient, nor soft-hearted.
When the pit was filled with soil, the old man planted seeds and left the second child aside. A child is like an empty shell that has been drained of juice. Pain turns hair white and the old man disdains it. Then he mentioned the last child, pointed to the buried seeds and said to him, "water." The child was so sad that he shook into a ball and seemed to ask him, "Dad, where is the water?" "Cry. You have it in your eyes. " The old man replied, turning his weak little hand, tears suddenly flowed out of the child's eyes, and the thirsty dust took a sip; So I cried for a long, long time; In order to squeeze out those tired tears, the old man stood on the cold and hard wasteland.
Tears converge into a trickle of sadness and caress the edge of the pit; Seeds stick out from the surface of the earth, then sprout and grow a few leaves; While the child was crying, the young tree added branches and leaves, and it took a long time until the trunk was tall and straight, the crown was lush, and the branches and leaves were full of fragrance, which was taller than the cold old man and stood alone on the hard wasteland.
The wind rustles leaves, birds in the sky nest on branches, and its flowers bear fruit. The old man let go of the child, and the child stopped crying and was covered with white hair. Three children stretched out greedy arms to the fruit on the tree; But the tall and thin old man grabbed their necks, pulled out a seed like a baby, took them to another nearby rock, raised one foot and pressed the first child's teeth to the ground. The child lay at the old man's feet, his teeth chattered and he began to gnaw at the rock surface again. The old man stood on the hard wasteland like ice, motionless and silent.
That wasteland is our life; That ruthless tough guy is our will; Those three shivering children are our internal organs, our functions and our strength. Our will draws infinite strength from their weakness to conquer the world and break through the mysterious darkness.
A cup of dust was blown down by the fleeting wind, and the wind stopped and scattered on the ground; A cup of dust: weak, short-lived, young creatures contain special power, unrestrained power, which is better than the turbulent waves of the sea, the gravity of mountains and the operation of planets; A cup of dust can be condescending, overlooking the mysterious elements of everything and saying to it: "If you exist as a free force and act consciously, you are just like me. This is a will: I am a race with you, and I am a race with you; However, if you are a blind, resigned force, if the world is just a slave patrol going back and forth in infinite space, if it succumbs to a kind of darkness of its own unconsciousness, then I am much stronger than you. Please give me back the name I gave you, because I am the only one in the world. "
(1) refers to the pampa wasteland in Argentina and Uruguay.
Once the most beautiful
The sun and the moon alternate, the sky rotates, and everything is beautiful. It was no longer once. ...
The process of life is complicated, but the meaning of life is simple, just because it was once the most beautiful!
Youth is gone, but the floating dust still exists.
The wind is rushing, the leaves are boundless, and the ups and downs are the hearts. ...
Those once owned and lost have been reduced to ashes, bounced off gently and danced in the sky; Those who are remembered and forgotten have turned into tears and evaporated by the sun. So can it be calm? Because there is nothing now.
The years are getting old in a hurry, what can't stay, what can stay, and where is the collection?
Recalling the past and looking at the vicissitudes of life, those promises and vows are so fragile that I don't even have time to listen. The face is easy to get old, but the heart is hard to get old. After so much experience, can you fade away in advance and become mature? Are you allowed to change dramatically and fly? Imprisonment has made it tremble and dying.
When you see a black meteorite that doesn't even smell, have you ever thought that it used to be a dazzling star in the sky? Although it is no longer shining in reality, it has always been shining and beautiful.
When you see a dead tree, its bark is as dry as the wrinkles on the old man's forehead, and it has lost its former color and vitality. Have you guessed what tree this is? Is it the willow with green silk tapestry hanging down, or the elm tree that only smells the snow all over the sky, or the plum tree that smells fragrant? I think, no matter what kind of tree it is, at least it was beautiful and prosperous. Although it is impossible to guess what tree it is now, it once had a young heart.
The ending is not the fate of things. Although some endings are sad and heartbreaking, its process and connotation are always fascinating. Like meteorites and dead trees, their endings are painful. The value of life often lies not in the ending, but in the process. It used to be the starting point of the future, the embodiment of life and the connotation of the process. It used to be the most beautiful, and all the beauty was yesterday.
Recently, I met a long-lost friend. It is only after we have experienced our own lives that we find how precious and unforgettable our feelings are. We recalled many bits and pieces of the past together. Those past events are surging in my heart and rippling. Only then did we find that our beauty was in the past and our happiness was yesterday.
My friends say that I am a nostalgic person. There is no denying that I often indulge in past memories. There are stories and feelings in the memory, mixed with our injuries and pains, laughter and tears. Recalling the past is happy, it can open the bits and pieces buried in the bottom of my heart, find happiness in one story, feel in the past, think in the past and grow in the past.
Perhaps, the once deep love was nothing but passion and nostalgia, but the years have become a part of life, and giving up is still the best choice. Laugh sadly and make a stage. Even if there are shortcomings, it is still a perfect ending. "Flowers wither, people are haggard, and the past turns into smoke with flowers", but it really doesn't matter if they wither. As long as you remember, it once bloomed and was the most beautiful.
If people live too realistically and keep pursuing the future, life will become a burden. You will feel tired in the dead of night. If we look back, look at the road we have traveled, the crooked footprints, and write down how many hardships and difficulties. At this time, joy and tears are intertwined, gently knocking on a heavy heart, soothing a tired heart with its beauty and washing away our impetuous feelings. At this time, it once became a good medicine, with its unique beauty, washed away the dirt in the world.
The future is important, but it is not the whole of life. If we are busy studying and working all day … running like a machine, life will lose its true colors. Life needs us to look forward and backward.
What I have said, the tears I have shed, the hands I have held and the people I have loved are beautiful scenery and simple happiness.
It used to be the most beautiful, surpassing any beautiful scenery and all comfortable life in our hearts.
Once, it was the habitat of the soul, which would bring us eternal beauty and happiness!