When I was young, I walked out of the dirt road of my hometown, stepped on the muddy and fine stone paths, and looked at the lingering morning glory and the wild lilies all the way to the valley mouth. My heart was like a seed of spring grass buried in the ground. I want to be a writer, a writer and a thinker. I want to walk out of this village and walk straight to the end of the distant sky.
Full of love, romance, ideal heart, always with a dream, that the road of life is straight, wide, flat, after years of walking, only to know that the road is sometimes rugged, occasionally sunken, and impassable narrow alleys! Reading and appreciation of American articles
Literature records one's own life, and essayists, especially those who are nearly 60 years old, can generously declare that I have gone through all kinds of roads, my life has made many turns, there is no fixed amount of success or failure, and the good and bad also vary with time and space. The work is not about youth or maturity, but a note on a certain journey of life.
Some of the post stations are empty.
Some hotels are filled with sand all over the sky.
Some inns are full of flowers.
Some restaurants are small in the sky and the moon.
I have lived temporarily among them, feeling that I am in such a state of affairs and sensitive to gentleness.
The green grass by the roadside, I didn't hide you.
The tenderness of the bright moon in the mountains, I didn't hide you.
The fragrance of the lotus by the pool, I didn't hide you.
Green and green bamboo are all dharma bodies, depressed and yellow flowers, nothing but Prajna.
I neither reveal nor hide!
The audio closing song of this issue is selected from Faye Wong's Heart Sutra.
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