under the moon before flowers
Du Yihong Ni Nong dances, soft and elegant. Lei Ting was shocked to read the love of red dust, and broke in vain and went to Jingmen. People don't know how many opportunities they have to miss in this life so that they can no longer let the opportunities slip away from their hands; they don't know how many opportunities they have to let go in this life before they can pick up the present and move on. We are all learning to be a more mature and stable adult, but as everyone knows, this adult needs to lose more happiness and enjoyment. We gradually learned not to change our face when we encountered all the things, so now we have learned to cover up and disguise, even if there are tears in the corners of our eyes, we can use the temperature to make him disappear gradually at the moment of revealing; even if we really want to find someone When people tell all their stories, they will also use a plain or distant tone to tell one thing that is not important to others but is very hard to remember for themselves. All of this turned out to be just the beginning of the confusion when we gradually entered the age of our parents, and there is still an old age waiting for us to repent.
The light of nostalgia always likes to shine on our pupils, and the refraction prints overflow the curtains; the nostalgia always likes to revolve in the depths of the mind, rippling in the heart, and writing lightly in the depths of the soul, like dream-like thoughts. Knocking on the door knocker of memory, looking for the wandering soul lost in the dream; at this point, escape from the past, trapped in the sadness of fleeting years, can't forget and can't let go.
Looking back suddenly, what catches my eye is not the dim lights, nor the prosperous scenery, but the ethereal figure of me in the dream. Both hands always like to spend time on pen and paper, and write down a self-deceiving sentence: Actually, I am very good. Whenever I write this sentence, the tears keep rolling in my eyes until the tears dry up, and I am still crying or laughing.
The passing years scratched my painful youth, and youth is an irreparable endgame after all. A smear of unfeeling tears, looking to the end of the world; a sad song, sings the past life and the present life. In this melancholy season, I capture the evening fragrance of a period of time, quietly write my own past, and quietly write my present sadness. It turns out that all this is just that we can't reach the time, and since this is the case, we have to look to the future. Life is not so cold and bitter, but more pleasant and happy.