A rainy morning, can not look at the mountains, do not look at the view, just across the rain curtain, sitting around a room warm, see the deja vu that affectionate, and fell into my palm.
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MiyazakiHayao said: it's raining in the city where you live. I'd like to ask if you have an umbrella, but I can't help it, because I'm afraid you don't have it, and there's nothing I can do about it, just like I love you, but I can't give you the company you want! Life, there happens to meet, there is close and happy, despite the changes around, although the wind and the moon flow, as long as guarding those fragments, if you are still there, it is warm.
We often miss things a long time ago because of an opportunity. The dreams in the dust and the thoughts in the fog are like the imprints of life, touched from time to time in the sea of wet hearts, and instantly indulge in closed palms. Although, the short-lived beauty, once written with expectations in the clouds, in the rain, in the palmprint of time, is only a scene, and the only thing we are grateful for is that we can still stick to our original self when the mountains and rivers are silent, without the slightest loss.
Life, let us know how to accept affection, to comfort the mood, to describe the scenery, to outline Zen rhyme, to know how to enrich life, so, to believe that the best fate, and the best person will not be far away, will always be there for you.
20 ℃ of the sky is a little warm, like clear soup boiled out of love, although there is no strong gift, it is undeniable that it is the best time. And we, with our heart firmly determined to have a good fate, iron out the twilight that we miss each other every day, and then look at each other through the years, not far, not near.
Buddha said, we are all walkers in this world, good believers in time, to be full of compassion, to be affectionate and loving children, not to be lost, not to lose, not to be a lonely shadow, to use a wise heart to gather a little bit of wisdom for yourself, one day, the world will gladly accept your affection.
I said, dear you, when I am not old, I must go to see you, no matter how far the road between you is, how deep the river is, the wasteland world, can meet, fall in love, is fate. There should be at least one time in life for yourself. You said, dear you, maybe I can't have your day and night, but promise me that you must be a happy woman, get up with me with your thoughts every day, and let your innocence flow in the whole sea of heart, one day, fate will give us a chance to love the person we want to love and believe in ourselves.
The fate of the world, as well as the story of life, from strange to familiar, is always so interpreted. Just as I came from afar, as soon as I raised my eyes, I met your eyes, so my eyebrows fell into your eyes. If time can not interpret a love clearly, I hope that I am just the four seasons that can not be avoided in your world of mortals, then the beauty of silence is the secret you write in your pen and ink. Like the distant sea of heart accidentally listening to the whisper of love, the years, so far open-minded and beautiful.
If I can spend my whole life writing, I would like to write the story in the words to the twists and turns, to the quiet mountains and rivers, and to the sudden warmth of spring on the stranger. At that time, you will ask the flowers across the bank, and I will be the smile in your eyes. If the image of time must come and go alone in some thoughts, then the years we have passed and the life we have experienced, no matter right or wrong, are not worthy of our sigh, because love and hate are only stories of time, after crying and laughing, at least, it can teach us to recognize.
The sentences I have written bloom like flowers on strangers in early spring, and some oily Nianren are silent at the tip of their hair and eyebrows, even if they are not noisy, they will be the joy of falling spring branches. The sentences I have written are like a cool woman passing quietly at the entrance of an alley in the south of the Yangtze River. Although her back has gone away, the warmth of her heart is overflowing with fragrance. The sentence I wrote is a teardrop in last night's dream, with the bright warm sun, moistening the green field of life, and close to the end of the world.
The years are complicated, Ming and Ming are intertwined, every day is carefully woven with affection, always worried that if not careful, the words will be as thin as cicada wings. And I like, every day to cut the mood to talk with time, bit by bit is the inner multiplication of beauty. Favorite, or the wind inadvertently revealed that love you, in the Yingfei grass and pick up a few Qinghuan.
When you come, I can regard it as a kind of commitment that you want to talk to me about a landscape, or a commitment to seek spiritual relief beyond millions of mortals, or we just sit face to face until it is getting late, and then quietly say Zen to half a roll of time.
In fact, these, and those, are illusory, is chaos, I will not care. I just try to shake things off with the breeze rustling inside and outside, so it shows that I really don't care whose mountains are green by the fleeting wind or whose face is affected by the promises in the wind. I don't care who wrote an old poem with a long scroll of time. Some common feelings, common things, good and bad should all have their own lives, such as the change of the four seasons is no longer resentment, thoughts, and let the heart always live in a spring, and my smile can be filled with Qingchuan without scruples.
If I spent my whole life thinking only to meet the bright sunshine every day, to stop wandering in the cold wind and smoke, and to bury my old dreams in the south of the city, then I sat down on the ancient road of the world of mortals, watching people come and go, watching Yingfei grass grow, watching swallows unharmed, and watching peach, willow and green fall into the arranged lines of poetry, I would smile and say to myself, fortunately, my heart is still there, and I can still be safe.
If you can meet a man who loves you in a small town bathed in the sun, he can write handsome words for me, and I can write good poems for him, then in this life, I will be a woman with the smell of firewood, not secular or impetuous. I just want to spend my whole life insisting on quietly cooking a pot of gentleness, even if it is cool and thin, it is also a gift of love and a tranquil fragrance of flowers in my heart.
If I could, I would like to live in spring forever in my life.
Words / flowers are speechless
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