We are a row of trees, standing in the dust of the city.

Many friends say we shouldn't stand here. In fact, we know this better than anyone. Our home is on the mountain, in the dark virgin forest. And we actually stand here, standing on the roadside of these two lanes, which is undoubtedly a kind of degeneration. Our companions are all sucking dew and playing with cool clouds. What about us? As you can see, our only decoration is a shaking ash.

Yes, our fate has been arranged. In this industrial city full of cars and chimneys, our existence is just a sad ornament. But you can save your sympathy, because this fate is actually our own choice-otherwise, we won't have to grow green leaves frequently in spring and give people shade in summer. The sacred cause is always painful, but only this kind of pain can give us depth.

As night falls, the whole city is full of complicated strings and hurried flutes, all red lights and green wine. And we are in silence, we are in the dark, we are in the loneliness that is not understood. However, we gritted our teeth hard until the flag of the morning glow, Ran Ran, rose and we stood in a row to pay tribute-in any case, someone in our city must meet the sun! If no one else greets us, we will be responsible for welcoming the light.

At this time, perhaps an early child came over and greedily breathed fresh and clean air. This is our proudest moment. Yes, maybe everyone has long been accustomed to filth, but we still stubbornly create a sense of freshness that is not cherished.

Maybe we are happiest when it rains. The news that the rain brought to our old friends brought us back to the carefree old forest in our imagination. We cried in the rain, and we always loved life there-even though we gave it up.

Standing in the dust of the city, we are a sad and happy tree.

The Fear of Life by Zhang Xiaofeng.

It was the longest afternoon in summer, by a lake in Indiana. At first, I sat reading casually, and suddenly I found some white fibers floating around the lake, like cotton, some floating on the grass and some floating into the lake. I didn't care too much at that time, but it was brought by the accidental wind.

However, gradually, I found the situation simply surprising. A few hours later, the trees are still unconsciously sending those small clouds, as if they were an infinite cloud bank. The whole afternoon, the whole night, the sky is full of that kind of thing. The situation the next day was exactly the same, and I was surprised and shocked.

In fact, when I was in primary school, I knew that there was a kind of seed that was planted by wind-blown fibers. But I only know the answer to a test question. I really saw it in those days, and what I felt wholeheartedly was an admiration, an unspeakable awe. I almost met life for the first time-although it was a plant.

I feel that the seeds like clouds collide strongly with something in my heart, and I can't help but be moved by the luxury, luxury and cost-free investment of life. Perhaps only one seed, after wandering day and night, is enough to make a tree, but the creator is willing to do such a thrilling feat.

When I meditate, I still think of that lovely lake. I don't know which seed on the lake has become a small tree. At least, I know one has grown up. That seed once met a piece of land, and in the heart valley of a passerby, it became overcast and taught her how to fear life.