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1. Twisted flowers are annihilated, and the wind ripples are annihilated

Eating fireworks in the world according to the word, just like a Tsing Yi, with a fragile and sensitive heart, interprets the reincarnation of the impermanence of the world in the play!

If writing is a journey, the road of the heart is bitter. Put down the pen and cover the volume, sit in front of the window, drink with the wind, dye a little coolness like water into the heart, wet a curtain of shallow thoughts, and roll up a few wisps of pear blossom tears of leisure. Standing in a lonely posture as a tree, a fallen leaf, is a commemoration of the years, a touch of new shoots, is a promise of time.

If you turn the time into a poem, turn the years into a song, moisten the pen with the quiet and charming background of the text, and twist a heart that understands all things, you can take refuge in the text and enter the world safely. Keeping the silence of the ink pool, the ripples of the words are mellow and light, and an emotion will no longer drift with the flow.

When the lonely shadow once again followed the words on the windowsill, a seemingly familiar feeling came to the face, crawling all over the window lattice. Thoughts wandered through thousands of mountains and rivers, and I met you wearing a Luo shirt, pointing to the piano, playing through the depths of the clouds and smoke, fainting with a wisp of light and quiet, and embracing my heart with a warm and full posture. An indescribable joy and a kind of cordial warmth quietly came, the joy was as abrupt as the sound of spring, but it was leisurely. Along the elongated tentacles of the text, the murmur of the wind, a weak and sensitive heart, there is a ** accumulation, wet flowers and trees, wet wind letters, wet emotions that break through the ground in an instant. Not for the smoke and rain in the south of the Yangtze River, nor for the water willows in the north, but for the wet lights of thousands of homes.

Scrape an inkstone from the poems that have been dried by the fireworks of the world, plant the wind bone of a lotus between the lines, twist the words and flowers, and annihilate the wind ripples. On the red dust, a shallow and proud branch was brought up, and he couldn't bear to fold it, but because of a moment of gentleness and quietness, he felt a little bit of understanding.

2. If the word is Bodhi, it will be blurred for a lifetime

According to the words, write your heart, whether charming or desolate, it has nothing to do with the short and long, it is your own heart in time. And, the bitterness of writing is tormented by a heart, tormented by any emotion, colored by red dust, and covered with dust over the years. In the dark, a flower is a world, a word is a heart, when words bloom in the mind. It is a tree Bodhi that watches over the red dust. In this world, falling in love with words is also a kind of fate, a person who misses the old times, always collects the past in the breeze and dresses it into a book. Morning bell and dusk drums, accompanied by words, drunk in the gentle countryside of words, a cup of tea, a song, staying in a person's paradise, according to the word to ask the sky, according to the word to interpret the flower language, a heart in the branch of the text, halo a piece of spiritual rhino fragrance, just shallow moist pen, you can be freehand full of birds and flowers, you can outline the eyes full of clouds and clouds, you can render a lifelong love. After you can see all the beautiful scenery in your book, you can still stay with each other. It can also make irritability disappear, and the unhappy factor escapes into the dust, and blooms beautifully.

In this way, I can write on the forehead of the years, write about the days of the passing years, write the affectionate warmth of the hand of the hand, write the simple happiness of a fire reflecting red wrinkles, let the irritability stay in the wind, let the story grow into the elegance and preciousness of blue and white porcelain, let the wind and dust shallow the charm of women, and carve the vicissitudes of men. That beautiful memory like a cloud is like a flower in the far spring, like a bookmark sandwiched in a book, and it doesn't need to be deliberately provoked, so that its old fragrance overflows. Then, just through the gentle and smooth words, boil tea and twist incense next to the red clay stove, wait peacefully, wait for the words to rewrite the face of time, and wait for the words to fall into the dust and grow into vines entangled in Moxuan.

The word is like Bodhi, a lifetime of confusion, burning incense and singing, and feelings are like a wisp of smoke curling on the temple stove, entangled in the morning bell and dusk drum. Waiting for a Zen text flower to bloom, watching a person with a Buddha's heart come from afar wearing a text robe.

3. The word will burn fireworks, and the years will be safe

With the words of the heart, I hope the years are safe.

In this kind of time, I always long to live according to the words, feed the emptiness, the happiness of strong nostalgia in life, so extravagant, like to be in the twilight quadrangle, remove all the noise and disguise, a person under the lamp, according to the words, clean the heart, and another self silently, in the name of poetry, enjoy this last little bit, lonely and simple peace of mind and comfort! If you can bypass the dusty four seasons, hide in your life, the deepest, most reluctant page, remember the warmth from your side. When I write about the sourness of my heart, when I write about the stars and the moon is thin, when I write about the slush of flowers, I find that the words are like a lock, locking my sensitive heart and my weak feelings. Therefore, I am gradually timid and timid, like the hardships and pains of silkworms spinning silk! And that, the beauty of the gorgeous and thin wings of the silk makes me willing to get into the net woven by myself, unable to extricate myself, without regrets and sorrowful to grow old, waiting for one, a promise of feathering in this life!

Even if the enigmatic distance cannot be measured, I still groan!

When the lonely shadow climbed up the windowsill again, the loneliness fell from the lamp, cold as dew condensing the moonlight, the night was so deep that the sound of the sky falling could be heard. At this moment, most people are dreaming, and I still gently hold the pen of longing in my hand, full of distress, piling up the past bit by bit, swaying in the silence with the deep affection of a hundred turns of soft intestines, and rubbing the lonely wound in my heart. Imagine stealing a curtain of dream silhouettes and hiding them in the world of dreams. Maybe it's a fireworks boom, maybe it's an encounter with a broken bridge, maybe it's a vow that will never give up, maybe it's the amazing life that you only see for the first time, or maybe it's the worry that just frowns but is in your heart. All the good and sad things are deep in that dream.

However, I am addicted to words like a poppy, and I am like a farmer who loves crops, carefully selecting each seed planted under it, taking care of each unearthed bud, repeating every section of farming with pleasure, experiencing the pain of jointing, and the difficulty of pregnancy, but I may not be able to enjoy the joy of the harvest like a farmer. Even if it doesn't end perfectly and doesn't come out, I still love the doll that has just landed, no matter how beautiful or ugly, take care of it. I am still like a goldsmith, hammering and beating words day and night, just to extend the sorrow and hollow out! So, in the gap between the overlapping times, I squeeze my mood into words, extend it into words as thin as cicada wings, or joy, or sadness, these are all my dialogues with the years, and they have nothing to do with the short flow! Just like the flowers planted in the heart, they will be fragrant when the season comes, and they will not be affected by whether there are people who appreciate the flowers.

Alone in the sleepless, touching the bottomless loneliness of the dark night, the ears seem to hear the murmur of all things, the flowers and plants in the courtyard grow quietly, every year, every season, always follow nature, open in order, no flower will forget, no leaf will hesitate, do not entangle the years, do not resent the time, do not sigh indiscriminately, silent but rhyme, such as the dumb strings elegant rhythm is full, ready to come out. And I can speak closely with the flowers and plants, water the gains and losses into the muscles and bones of the flowers and plants, and the only thing that can bloom flowers is words. I always longed for a corner of this world that belonged to me, to accommodate the whispers of annoyance, to no longer torment my fanatical memories, and no longer to disturb the dreams of my words. Let me withdraw from the red dust, not to see through the red dust, but to be able to stop the water. I really want to touch the darkness of the night, peel off the words from my heart, loosen and tighten, and make a circle of light and deep rings, not looking at the old world, just trying to be unharmed. Then facing the direction of the sun, the agitation is condensed into dew drops on the lotus leaves, rolling down in the early morning, you can wet the words, volatile poetic understanding, in this world, the constrained is life, unconstrained is the mood.

4. If the word is like a flower on the other side, it is too flawless

In fact, I like words, maybe it's the kind of obsession that makes me happy and makes me sad, when I'm alone, I avoid the flashy world, hold the pen in ink, put the words with the fragrance of flowers on the paper, let the heart be beautiful in the ink fragrance, render a tree of flowers, bear the fruit of mutual knowledge, and then, with the person who understands, maybe the present person, or maybe the ancients, in the dark, don't talk about the wind and moon, only according to the words of the heart, chant and sing. No matter what, close at hand, the end of the world, invite the cup to change the lamp, talk to each other, with the fragrance of ink, a sleeve of joy, twist a finger of shallow joy, condense time into amber, buckle in the palm of your hand, the tenderness of the fingers, and play with a lifetime.

And in the old years, the only remaining bit of words is stacked into a cloud in the distance, and I think about it at dusk. Come to think of it, people who are associated with words are more bitter, lonely and lonely, far away from the hustle and bustle, not sinking into the bright lights, just like people who believe in Buddhism, green lights and lonely moons, a Buddha, a wooden fish, beating day and night, only to torture the blurred world, just to extend the pain as thin as cicada wings. Let a heart be tormented, any kind of emotion tormented.

In fact, people are suffering in this life, cultivating the next life, carrying words and doing asceticism, iron horse autumn wind, desert scattering, nostalgia for the ancients, tears, love words like people, drifting down the [Book of Songs], Li Qingzhao 'people are thinner than yellow flowers', Liu Yong' is haggard for Yi, the clothes are getting wider, and he will never regret it', Xin Qiji's people are looking for him thousands of times, and suddenly looking back, but the person is in the lamplight'. Li Yu "asked how sad you can be?" Just like a river flowing eastward. Swimming across the Wen River, swimming upstream, how many writers have been swept away by the waves of words?

Perhaps, thousands of years ago, how many lonely shadows were boiled by a bean oil lamp, and how many bright chapters were picked up by thousands of trees and lanterns. Touching the rhyme between the lines of the yellowed words, when a drop of tears slipped down his eyes and blurred the inscription on the paper like a plum blossom, would he have been infected with the poison of love in the text?

From then on, words have joys and sorrows, and people will love words crazy.

In this way, this kind of obsession with words is a distressing but difficult feeling for people who like words, which is full of joy and a little sad. However, such feelings are difficult for people who have nothing to do with words, and they are also incomprehensible.

If the ink pool is still fragrant, the time is quiet into a poem, the years are gentle into a song, and the sadness is rendered in the boiling words, and you will be able to express the country so much, according to the words, purify the heart, and another self is silent, in the name of poetry, enjoy this last little bit, lonely and simple peace of mind and comfort!

The words are like flowers on the other side, too red and flawless, hidden in life, the deepest, most beautiful, and most reluctant page, remembering the warmth from the side.

5. If the word is practiced, who is responsible for it?

I have always liked words, even if the old time, will rust the words, the thin words are difficult to wrap the desolation of the years, I still wash the words with great sorrow and joy, and in the days when I know myself warmly and coldly, I will also care for myself as the most elegant Confucian, hanging ink in the world, smiling at the wind and moon, in the middle of a lifetime of sorrow and displacement, words are the warm hometown that has been sought.

In the text, the smoke and rain are soaked, even if the heart is full of mud, it still filters out the dust. It is difficult to have "red sleeves and incense to make poems at night", only the green light faints the fragrance of ink, leaving only the fountain of inspiration to rush to the book, and the feeling of exhaustion and smoke ring vomiting entanglement, indulging in wine and loneliness.

Perhaps, this is the fate brought by the words, loneliness, a little frustration, and loneliness in the dust of a few journeys.

In this way, I exalted the text with the devotion of preaching the scriptures, and cultivated the magic ke. If the text is powerless to surpass the soul, I am determined, but the dream of the Red Mansion without words, not stained with ink incense, knotted rope notes.

In this way, a person who writes with his heart, with blood, renders the background color of life, and waters the flowers of love with tears. If you can't bathe in Nirvana, you are tired by life, trapped by your heart, and it is difficult to get rid of the sea of suffering, I am willing to abandon the love of the three worlds and ask for another 500 years before the Buddha!

If the word is practiced, who is responsible for it?

Perhaps, most people who like words are temperamental, not lacking in enthusiasm, but also sentimental.

Perhaps, people who like words are writers who "have a five-flowered horse under their crotch and wear a golden fur".

Perhaps, the person who likes words is the prodigal son who "rides a donkey and leans on the bridge, and the building is full of red sleeves".

Perhaps, the person who likes words is the author who "sweats and paints green grass, and the autumn fruits are red".

And writing, perhaps a kind of red-sleeved wine hearty pleasure!

Maybe it's a bosom romance of mountains and rivers!

Maybe it's a lonely frustration of walking thousands of miles!

Who turned the relics of the literary world into hearts that were obsessed with words, and boiled them in the ink jar.

Perhaps, you already knew all this, and you have already arranged it!

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