Sitting alone behind the curtain of the snow fog, listening to the sound of snow falling. The falling dead leaves were quickly covered with snow, disappeared like a grain of dust and sank with my memory.
It seems that every winter is spent like this, curling up in my warm cabin, lighting a curling lamp, listening to music, drinking steaming tea, reading my favorite books and watching the wind, frost, rain and snow slide past the window year after year. I would like to live in my castle like this and watch the years pass quietly, like water. I don't know if the traces of time are hung on my face and engraved in my heart. I know that one day, my eyes are no longer as clear as snowflakes. After years of heavy snow, will you still remember the woman behind the snow and the heart of the past as snow?
Looking up at the pedestrians on the road, everyone is in a hurry. The solstice of winter has not yet arrived, and the cold at this moment is not biting. I think a person walking on the road, looking at the leaves that will not fall, will make me feel a little sad, feel the warmth of home, and involuntarily speed up my steps. Reminds me of the ancient poem "Chai Men smells dogs barking, and the snow at night returns to people". Thinking of this, I can't help laughing, not at others, but at myself. Sitting in the room all day thinking, vague, many scenes have never been experienced and will never be realized, but inexplicably familiar and frightened. As if I had wings in my heart, I flew around for me through time and space. It turns out that imagination can be so real or so absurd.
I suddenly remembered an old song many years ago: put away your emotions, leave your memory blank, forget the past you once had, and never say love again ... I like these naive old songs, and all my troubles were solved in a few words. How many words can be realized in the ethereal promise of that year? I don't know and I can't prove it. All I know is that it will never bring the slightest excitement or dizziness, just like fireworks in the night sky. Beauty only belongs to her for a moment, the wind blows away, the prosperity is gone, and everything is empty.
Moonlight and snow shadow rolled into the window, sprinkled on the table by the window, sprinkled on my forehead, and nourished my soul. Fingertips danced again, pouring out her loneliness. This is just a game and a dream. Only the rules of this game are impermanent. This dream can see the other side, but can't swim. This play is wonderful. It should be staged when it should be staged, and it should end when it should be finished. This game is very helpless, from clear to fuzzy, from spring flowers to autumn dew. Like a wisp of wind, a Jing Xue, ups and downs at will, I don't know where to go, I don't know where to go.
"Speak, speak; What's the hurry between going and coming? " Mr. Zhu Ziqing's "Hurry" made me sigh. It turns out that everything is doomed to be in a hurry, and I will never catch up with it.
The snow outside the window has stopped. I stayed where I was, like a butterfly tired of dancing, unable to fly away.