a piece of ginkgo leaf

When the book was turned over, a piece of ginkgo leaves slipped quietly.

I bent over and picked it up. I was shocked to hear that this was given to me at the same table when I was a graduate. The back reads: "Zhen Zhongyou!" I don't remember if there was an impulse to cry at the time, but now, on the yellow leaves It is already a teardrop. I remember that there is still a feeling in the world that is moving. For a long time, I seem to have forgotten the feeling of moving. Is my heart already indifferent, or is it already filled with something that is irrelevant?

A friend once gave me the following sentence: "We will pass by, not because we have no chance, but because we are missing in our lives. Indeed, our hearts are not sensitive, we no longer collect our hearts with our hearts. The slightest touch was made, only when we missed it and then looked back, we found out that we really lost a lot.

There are always people who complain that there are fewer and fewer things that can be touched in this world. However, as long as we calm down and think about it, you will find that it is actually moving everywhere.

When I was tired of reading, my parents cut the apple for us. It was touched. When I was thirsty, my friend helped you to pour a glass of water. I was touched. When I was depressed, I was touched by a relief. When I was happy, someone shared happiness with you. Impressed; on an ordinary day, I received a small gift, even if it was just a piece of notice, a leaf, it was also moved...

Perhaps, sometimes it is because of their mundane that we turn a blind eye. There is such a saying: "The reason why people are moved is because they live in love." There is love in the world. What reason do we have to let the mediocrity cover our eyes and not feel the touch?

What is moving? A thousand people have a thousand answers. Because the touch is not said by the mouth, but by the heart.

Friends, please pull out your heart from the soil, and make a little space to bear the impression that this is enough for us to relive our life.

The sixth grade of my school in Zhangjiagang City, Suzhou, Jiangsu Province: Where is my heart flying?