Fallen leaves

Fourteen years old, lost direction.

When, love sitting on the swing and meditating "tears rushing / infinitely bitter in the heart / want to bury in the world / burying the faint sorrow of the eyes / only one person to see the traces of meteors / only one person carrying this lonely heart flying The light of the far side/North Star tilts into/reminisces and looks at the pain of memory...”; When, I love sitting on the desk and writing quietly, “The whole fairy tale, half happy, half sad, so-called Well-proportioned..."When, when I look at the stars in the night sky, I wish a wish to the meteor that has passed away: If there is a next life, I would rather pass you by. ”

Looking back, I realized that I had such a beautiful story with you. When I look back, I know that we met at a crossroads. When we look back, we know that we laughed and cried together. When we look back, we know that our memories have been frozen in the years. In the corner; when we look back, we are in the same way, and the memories of the past are stranded here. We all said that tired and tired, in the light of the light, the back is opposite, like two parallel lines, never intersect. In the past, the path of the intestines and intestines was not in the shadows of the shadows. Today, only lonely is almost absurd, and the incompleteness is unsightly. Going, tired, really left, the opposite back, a "goodbye" did not say.

What has been in my world, weaving a series of joys, sorrows and sorrows, a series of joys and sorrows, and a very regular erroneous. Have you ever owned, and now you should forget it, should you give up? I remember that Xi Murong wrote, "When spring comes again, the wild lily that has been forgotten / will still grow in the same valley / in the shade / still have the fragrance of the past. But no one / no one will remember We/and the joys and sorrows we have had, and the farther and farther away, finally/only a few poems and/or a touch of slanting sun. Perhaps, in the end, I really only remember myself. Perhaps, in the end, only oneself is waiting for the memory of the stupid; perhaps, my own thoughts on the verbal, will soon be holding the breeze, floating in the world, a passing face, you are just a passing passenger.

Postscript: Xiao Xiao red dust, fallen leaves sad. In the shallow life, leaving only a trace of faintness is the courage of the fallen leaves.

Du Xiuguo Middle School, the second day of the second day: Musi flow