Give yourself a blue sky for the rest of your life

Time turns around, blooming, withering and falling in a period of flowers, cycling into a landscape of a journey. The pen stained with colorful life, falling ink in the years, chanting and singing, freehand brushwork into the rhyme of poetry, flat ups and downs. The tree came to a prosperous end, and the plain pen spilled ink was wild and unruly, and it finally became a memory.

At sunset, a tear breaks into a sea, boundless loneliness spreads in the dusk, and life eventually becomes an irreversible memory. Everything is so far away that it has become an ethereal illusion, and the teenager who once played the flute under the moon finally turned into a dream in the middle of the night. The footprints of the woman in Tsing Yi in search of plum in the snow evolved into the hatred of those who buried flowers in the corridors of history.

Gazing and whispering, wandering in the river of years, the clothes of youth were worn out in the alternation of the monsoon, while life was written in the vicissitudes of life in the rush of the mountain and the water. I suddenly look back and find that those days as insipid as water are full of weariness and warmth.

Cool breeze and bright moon, drinking a pot of tea alone under the moon, misty rain in the south of the Yangtze River, seeking spring and dancing beautifully makes people nostalgic. Autumn wind leaves, flowers into mud, mournful wind, bitter rain, rain falling a little bit desolate only add to the sadness. And I, what should be used to write this small letter of life, is it a good time, or a short life; whether to condense ink into death or fall into a song, how to write the chapter of years with a touch of ink?

Write down, filter out the condensation of sadness, but still can not write that once free and easy, through the paper, that shallow grief permeated on the title page, the longest memory is always sad. The years have taken away the splendor of youth, but why not take away those vicissitudes together.

Hold the pen graffiti, ink fragrance Qinxin, once boiled snow tea, white head Tianya; once treated me high horse, allow you ten miles of peach blossoms; once waiting for my string broken sound, maybe your green hair but achieved a section of mournful lies!

Hold a pot of wine of years, drink slowly the past of the world of mortals, pour half a cup of tea, taste the vicissitudes of life. The flowers bloom on the strangers of the world of mortals, how many affectionately lost on the road, how many ideals are crushed into dust by fate. Time flies, how many vows have been beautiful, and how many princes have achieved the wishes of people with lofty ideals. Reading and appreciation of American articles

Shallow words, light songs, writing into war, these are not what we first want to look like, is the years scratched the most beautiful time, the prosperity of the floating world messy once the dream. There is a long way to go, with regret and sadness, how many people are busy; how many crazy people are hiding their tears; how many people are confused; how many people are resisting their fate in the vicissitudes of life?

The rest of life is shallow, time goes by, how many years to squander and how much time to share together. Twist a touch of wind, touch a few raindrops, write a que word, filter out sadness, as long as the quiet, sunset evening, breeze whispering, give yourself a blue sky, copy the young mind, sing under the blue sky, carve the ring into a free and easy outline.

The rest of life is not long, the years can be counted, but happiness is endless, happiness is immeasurable, as long as the pen of life, covered with sunshine, splash ink crazy books under the blue sky, sadness can also be written into the appearance of happiness. A happy, an insipid, a youth, a quiet, on this evening of the sun at will, go with the circumstances, go with the heart.

No longer obsessed with those obsessed with their own obsession, no longer entangled with the endless ties, no longer wait for no longer hope to let the soul soar freely under the blue sky, let the heart bloom into the appearance that you like in the sun.

The rest of my life is not long, ink writing years, where there is a blue sky, is the time I sketched for myself!