Chapter 431: I'll Die, I Love You! (b)

Love is like a transparent mirror, turning those so-called past into clear illusions, and the years are the wind and frost of the seasons, imprinting traces on a young face, a few of which have become signs of happiness, and a few of which have become evidence of pain. Pen & Fun & Pavilion www.biquge.info

Maybe this is just the sorrow and joy in the evolution of life, or it can be regarded as love under the mockery of reality, after a change of face, innocence has been turned into nothing by the years; The definition of the world stumbles on the footsteps of running on the road, keeps a quiet heart, and carries some transparent memories.

Time has stranded the beautiful years, and I can always find some touching that has been precipitated in the depths of my soul, and the tip of the pen rustles across the blank paper to write down my dazed but exact truth.

People always have to go to many places in an asymmetrical time in their lives, and they have met many people, and there may not be many deep memories and touches, in the memory of love, what I miss is that cottage.

There, I left my glamorous, when I left, I stared for a long time, and suddenly, the things lost in time floated in every corner, like the catkins lingering in the wind, sticking to my heart, as if I was holding the protagonist in the story, I felt like carrying them and leaving together, but I couldn't touch it, only a phantom flashed in my heart.

Holding a cup full of water, it seems to reflect the love story as clear as water, it is a different spring, kapok swaying in the wind, peach and plum smiling all over the garden, exuding a charming fragrance everywhere, a vigorous young man full of books, like a dandelion flying in the wind, the sun is so elegant, and in the rain fell under the eaves, the house became a small station for my love.

On every noisy or quiet sunny and rainy day, I silently read books in that room, put a glass of water on the desk, and in every silent night, the tip of the pen rustled those words about love and ideals, and there was still a glass of water on the table, and more often I drank all the water in that cup unconsciously.

In summer, a cup of ice water has become a nectar that comforts the soul, and in winter, make a cup of hot tea, cover it with your hands, and take a sip in the reading room from time to time, the soul is filled with a faint fragrance of tea, and you feel the warmth of the quilt in your hands. A cup has become a symbol of love memory, and whenever you touch it, it's like time has returned to the green time and inhabited that hut for ideals.

Looking at the ink-dotted table, the ink dots on it seem to be a variety of symbols in life, each symbol records a different mood every day, how many times the tip of the pen walked through the silent laughter and tearless crying, the heart melted into the thick ink, written in the thick diary, inadvertently, the mood and ink were printed on the table.

There is also the mottled chair, on which I have sat on it once, listening to the whispers of the night breeze and the sad song of the rain; How many times have I looked at the bright moonlight from afar, attached to her in my heart, sitting there quietly, guarding that quiet time.

The single bed can always eliminate the fatigue of running around during the day, resting on that small bed, how many times have I had a laughing dream, how many times I have tossed and turned because of the little sadness of love, and I am also hesitant because of the unclear direction of life. No matter where you live, you will miss the bed in the hut and the time when you were alone in your youth.

A yellowed diary is a record of her life in the days of the hut, a record of her every day, open it, and there are still fallen leaves picked up in the autumn, and the dense lines of words are full of the mood that can still be felt at this time, as well as the one she met when she was ignorant.

That youthful affection is always the most beautiful memory, the original intention of the lingering affection always lingers in the heart, recalling, the corners of the mouth can always hang a smile, write your beautiful face on the yellowed paper, I read softly, it became a small story that touched me, not when I picked up the thick diary, like holding the real memory.

I always write love into poems at night, which is a collection of your smile, your beautiful eyes and sweet smile soften a heart that waits in peace, and I can always feel the warmth that you pass on kindness in my heart, but I think of my ignorant self in that time, and I don't know the meaning of cherishing.

Happiness has become sand at the fingertips, unable to hold it, slowly flowing away, and it is only that touch of tenderness that ripples in the heart. Closing the diary, it seems to lock in a dusty past, and all I look forward to in the mortal world is your happiness.

When I left the hut, I listened to the echoes of happiness on the gray walls, but all I heard was the chaotic voices of my heart, looking for the lost innocence in the thick cups of water and alkali, and I saw only the illusion of my thoughts, and I wanted to leave another drop of ink on the mottled tables and chairs, and looking back, it turned out to be an old memory.

Write a blank but accurate truth, miss the truth of the past, miss the hut that left a love!

A lot of the time, we envy each other. However, if you can really open the cover page of everyone's heart, you will find that we are actually very helpless.

There are always too many helplessness and regrets in life, when you don't know how to love, love often passes by; When you are officially waiting for the rice to be cooked, money is always calling from afar, and when you have started a family, you suddenly find a real one who or she is beckoning to you. Many times, we take the wrong path but can't turn back, choose a career but find that it is not what we love, born in wealth and want to experience the satisfaction of the poor, born in poverty and do not know the troubles of the rich.

We often dream, but it is always difficult to wake up; Frequent fantasies are always difficult to realize, frequent complaints are always not trying; Frequent planning but never the courage to act. I don't like to read, but I have to run for a diploma; I don't like sports but I can't stand being fat, and I'm not good at talking but I have to sell myself...... Life, in fact, is such helpless, but it must be accepted.

Sometimes I always want to live a chic and happy life, and I am calm on the surface of the people or things around me, but my heart is turbulent, and I envy some people's calmness and being myself, but in fact, who can do this?

There are always too many helplessness and regrets in life, because this is life. The sunset is fleeting, the years fade, the face is not there, and the flowers bloom and fall. Always sighing about life, life is helpless. The pace of time is rushing, so what can I do? When the vicissitudes of life will come to an end on the road of life.

(To be continued.) )