The past is like smoke, but it outlines the gentlest lines in my heart. Every stroke is the laughter and tears of the past. Now, it is indifferent but precious. Yesterday's sunshine passed through the gaps in memory, and mottled shadows fell on my heart, but the warmth remained. Yesterday's wind, carrying the fragrance of old flowers, gently blew past my ears. The whisper of time was the song of youth, and the melodious hem of the skirt danced with dreams. The past is like the stars in the night sky, some are bright, some are dim, but they all form the night scene of my life, none of them are missing, illuminating the way home. In the past, the rain ticked on the window, beating into poetry. Every drop was a thought, which moistened the heart, but also made it clear. Now, the rain has stopped, and it is as quiet and beautiful as ever. Memory is like that old book. The pages have yellowed edges, but the writing is still deep. Every time I turn it over, I have a new understanding. Every story is about the past, which warms my heart. The past is like a dream, the dewdrops in the morning light flicker in the dim light. In an instant, they disappear without a trace, but they are left in the morning to wake up fresh and beautiful.
Purpose: Inspiring stories