The wildflowers on the side of the road bloom at some point, and pedestrians pass by in a hurry, thinking that they have something big to do, but in fact they are just the trivial things of life in a hurry......

Seeing the wild flowers bloom, no one looked at them, and the wild flowers hurried down with the wind, and the roots were still biting the earth, and the bitter honey could not attract any insects, and the sun went down.

The moon rises indifferently, but it is the warmest in the night.

A young man sat on a chair on the side of the road, holding a book in his hand, and was perusing it.

"Eh~ What are you looking at?" The lamp crept up from the side of the road, and a beam of light shone down the boy's gaze.

A wildflower, a wildflower that had not yet died, shook its pale red petals and stood.

The boy didn't feel strange at the inquiry, just snorted.

"What kind of book?" The wildflower poking her head out was still persistently asking, "What kind of book is it~Tell me~"

The boy's attention turned away from the lines of text and looked directly at the lawn behind the chair.

There was nothing else on the lawn, just a single remaining wildflower, smiling at him.

"Who are you?" The boy looked at the flower.

"I don't know~ I don't have a name......" The flower looked a little dazed.

"I don't care about that, and I don't care about the questions you ask me. I just want to know who you are? ”

"I ...... I don't know ......."

Hearing the same answer from the flower, the boy became a little impatient.

He shrugged his shoulders, turned his head, retracted his attention, and continued reading, boring and tedious.

It's not far from the city center, but it's an urban park surrounded by trees.

It's close to residential areas, but it's rarely visited during the day, let alone late at night.

"That...... I may need to think about it, I can't seem to answer you right now. "The wildflowers can't stop the gust of evening wind, and the branches and leaves keep swaying, as if they will be blown away......

It was as if her roots were getting lighter and lighter, as if they were going to float away after all......

The boy sighed, "My book doesn't have to have a name. All you need to know is that I'm reading with something precious. ”

Wildflower laughed, "Really." ”

The boy stood up suddenly, the book fell to the ground, and he stared at the wildflowers as they drifted away.

In fact, it just fell into the ground.

The man was reading, and he looked out the window, and there was another window.

Turn off the music and don't want to listen to Cui Jian.

Between the building is an air bridge, the eyes are passed on above, and the people who have a heart are always thousands of miles apart, but only in the opposite building.

The book was very worn, the cover wrapped around his original rotten surface, and the yellowed pages felt like they would fall off suddenly when they were turned, only to be stale and old-fashioned to stop it.

Looking down, it is a lawn, the property is rarely taken care of, and wild flowers and weeds have grown. The man is not reading, he just reads with precious things.

He has always believed that someone will understand, but to this day, only that year's flower-

Ah, it's a little stuffy.

He put down his book and went to open the window, and it was gray.

He began to reflect on half of his life.

When he first came out, he was talented and smart, ah, just a little less rule......

By the time he had been in the rivers and lakes for more than eight years, the words were refined and refined, and there was no purpose, and the things that were written were either pleasing and had no connotation, or they complained and no one read them, heh, just because they asked for money to write only pleasing ...... Let the wind blow away for half his life, and when he was still young, his heart hit the center of the earth, but people looked at the sky from a tall building, what was it for?

He was still poor.

Make some white tea sent by a friend, but flush it into the water, shake it twice, take a sip, and suck the tea into your mouth and learn from your ancestors to chew it, chew it, swallow it, and hold the teacup out of your mind.

Put on your mask and head downstairs.

He even took a book with him.

There is a row of seats in front of the lawn, with an umbrella on it, and the only one in the middle can sit after the rain.

He dusted off the dust, touched the ice, and struggled whether he should take a book to pad his ass.

Thinking about it, it was too hard, so he covered his hands with a teacup and shouted once or twice, and it warmed up.

He turned the pages of the book boringly, it was not the one just now, this one was relatively new, and the appearance was more colorful, not a book but a fashion item...... Isn't the content still the same? That's fine.

He smoothed out the disobedience on the first page, and followed in a coherent manner.

"What are you reading?" He laughed, "It's nothing, it's fun." ”

"That's not what I'm asking." His hands trembled, and he realized that his seat was facing away from the lawn.

And did not dare to turn back.

"And what are you asking?"

"Something you think is precious." Take another sip of tea, a little faint aroma, not nasal or choking, just passing by, but giving birth to a bitter taste that lasts for a long time, like a thin thread floating in the air, floating into the distance endlessly.

He puts down the book, is it time?

Although he is not young, he still has a surplus in his life in general, and he can't do anything big, but it can't be said that he has no time.

"I need to think about it."

Is it emotion? It's emotion.

He twisted the lid of the cup and made a greasy sound.

Take another sip, and that's not enough.

The rain fell again, very small and fine, like a silver needle, always trying to pierce people, but unfortunately fell straight to the ground. Memories are evoked.

"Do you have to choose to do this?" She was angry.

"You understand."

"No, I don't understand, and I don't understand." It was the hardest day of his writing, and the books were scattered all over the table. This page is folded and that page is broken, and the words are intertwined, like a path to the darkness.

"You could have chosen a better career, become a teacher, or a police officer, or even go to a professional school to go to a state-owned enterprise and get a golden job."

"That's not a golden rice bowl, it's an iron rice bowl, no, you're wrong, it's not the point." The man's pen stopped.

"What's the most important thing! You can't even feed yourself, what else does it matter! Don't tell me the story of the Drifting Mother. You know, I just, just ......" she couldn't bear to continue.

"You... I—" The man twitched word after word, unable to articulate himself.

The man didn't dare to look back, his hand clenched the pen tightly, and sweat was dripping down. The pen was oily and slippery, but he insisted on holding it.

It's raining outside, so I don't remember exactly. That's a little heavier than feelings.

It's just that doing so is too heartless and unreasonable.

"Oh! I probably figured it out. The man's teacup was almost empty, and only a small mouthful of water was left to moisten the tea leaves, not leaves, and a few pieces were broken, and they were terrible.

"Yes, tell me." Wildflowers were indifferent.

"That impulse, an impulse that has been dead for a long time." He paused, "Impulsively ideating, impulsively writing, impulsively holding imperfect drafts and hyping them up." ”

"It's kind of interesting, but it's not quite. Isn't it? The man fell silent.

yes, that's when he was little, very young.

What now?

Is this urge still there?

What contains and replaces impulses?

"It's well written, it's just that it's still an old problem." The editor sent it this way.

It was late at night, and only the computer lights were on.

The man clips his hair to the top of his head, and he doesn't have time to pay attention to it if it's too long, maybe he won't have to do it right away.

"I know." He typed only three words.

"Alas, that's always the case. Who are you, I don't understand yet? If you want to go, it won't work. It's written deeply, I know, you can, but you have to make people read it! Blindly preaching, blindly indoctrination, novels are never written like this. As you know, we're generally dealing with a real problem. In terms of details, your problem is huge. You just like to use things that others can't understand. Likes to be self-righteous. These are deadly. However, you still have time to recognize and correct it, and there will always be books that will be recommended on the list. So the signing is still the same, the results are out, or the same sentence, you get what you get. The man sighed, picked up the herbal tea and took a sip, bittersweet and strange.

"Clear."

"Then do it! With the current basic salary, I will help you fight for full attendance, which is very hard. "A sense of powerlessness rushed to my head, the taste of herbal tea?

He understands that writing a novel does not mean that he can escape, but instead plunges into it, and he is smug and unconscious.

It's too realistic, so that the ideal has nowhere to put it.

The man was chewing on what little scum was left.

"Did you think of it?" Wildflower asked him.

He stood up, his back to the lawn.

The mask was stained with water, water that had just been drunk from tea.

It's already dark, and it's a little unconscious to read a book at this time.

He paced, muttering a few words in his mouth: "When I was a child, the impulse was wanting, and when I grew up, I thought that the impulse was reluctance and abandonment, and the current impulse is suitable, that is, relieved." ”

Strange birds squeaked and chirped in the trees far away.

He turned to the lawn and looked at her, she was old, her blush was gone, and there was no more light feeling that would pass away with the wind......

"You think I'll regret it?" As soon as he said it, he felt that it was extremely inappropriate.

"You're not questioning, you can't question. Seeking comfort. "Wildflowers are old.

"Yes, comfort, I need more comfort." It's like a crying child.

Once again, the wildflower floated up and landed on the man. At this time, it suddenly occurred to the man that he was going to fall into the earth.

"I'm only so persistent because I think writing is my life."

"For me, if there is a stop, it will only be caused by one cause, and that is the end of life, and there is only one result, the end of life."

This book, if you want to know what I, the author, think about it......

For him, I just wrote with the precious thing of life.

Like you, I have unwittingly learned to trade life for the meaning of life, to read and write books, and to be part of this precious legacy.

"This is not to say that we are as small as dust; Rather, it is said that the dust is as small as a wild flower, and it must bloom all over the mountains. Life has weight because of this, and because of it, it has a lot of meaning. ”

On that day, the man's home exploded into ruins, but in fact, it has always existed on top of the tall building, and there will be more and more people who will continue to move in.

Wildflowers bloomed in that city park, that and on this lawn, and they will fall into the ground......

You see, wildflowers are laughing.