There are no birds and traces in the sky, but it has already flew. When I read Tagore’s poems last time, it was still the sunny winter day when I reread. I sat in the group near the window, and there was just some sunshine writing gifts for me at noon, I especially cherish the tiny and short five to ten minutes. Finally, I can put aside those turbid and vulgar thoughts and swim alone in my dreams. Only this moment makes me feel happiness under pressure. Time is like a long river flowing slowly, everlasting. Suddenly, it flows into my university, but leaves vague and hard-to-find traces inadvertently, I can’t find it until I carefully examine it. Fragmentary, like leaves floating in the autumn wind, scattered souls, how to piece together? However, fallen leaves always return to their roots. And where is my root? Every time I enjoy those wonderful and attractive literary works, my heart will be quietly looked around, those novel plots, those suspense comedies, those hesitant and beautiful proses, whether it is the author’s self-vent, exposing and criticizing the social reality, or showing the nobility of human nature, it will make me excited. I want to take a pen and write. I want to write about my tiny self and the heart that is not solid yet. I have thought about setting my roots deep here. The more I tried my best, the less I could see the hope of half a point, because I couldn’t think of the experience alone. Those young words lay quietly on the cold screen, which would not decrease or leave, just to prove that I have been here, and I walked and walked. I don’t know when to start. I find that music is an artifact to calm my mood. Each song is passionate, exciting, cheerful, gentle, emotional or lazy. The wonderful melody will be happier because of your happiness and deeper because of your heartbreak. I used to imagine that there was also such a vocal cord to listen to the complicated mood of the world. I learned the repetition of the voice in the player over and over again, just to brush off a gray grain in the world of mortals. I knew that fantasy was always broken on the edge of reality. I sang and cried, and then became silent. Friends, don’t we fight like crazy people. Anyway, life like us is hesitating. All day long, we didn’t know how tired we were, wandering and looking for the nothingness of joy, struggling for the free fate. But I really want to do something, for this world, for this era, for my broken years, leaving a little tears is also beautiful. The confusion was reversed, the joys and sorrows were separated, the morning was dim and haggard, and there were many smoke waves. The broken days were still trying to be pieced together. Root has been under my feet, suddenly looking back, I have passed.

Like (prose editor: Jiangnan wind) the 30th year of my WeChat era

The year before last, my eunuch planned to buy a smartphone for him on his birthday. The main purpose was to teach them how to play WeChat, and let them…

Comments on the Chinese version of “worry-free grocery store”

Everyone moves towards a better life through his own efforts. The answer to the consultation letter is just encouraging an existing…

An emotional diary of a Christian (January 14, 2018)

January 14, 2018: Today, the temperature in Wujiang is relatively warm, not as cold as a few days ago. Yesterday and Today, Wu Jiang’s…

Be a person who never stops growing up

Teacher Lily coughed with a strong nasal tone when she was in yoga class. Maybe it’s uncomfortable, she has less demonstration action today,…

An emotional diary of a Christian (January 13, 2018)

January 13, 2018: Yesterday, my sister and nephew Little David didn’t come to the Dongwan village of jinjiaba where my mother and I stayed temporarily,…

An emotional diary of a Christian (January 12, 2018)

January 12, 2018: The day before yesterday, I said, “my mother will go to Kunshan tomorrow.” However, yesterday, my mother did not go to Kunshan…

Posted in Ihbic