Those wandering memories, carrying the long-gone yesterday, wandering after the wind, are still wandering. The wind outside the window opens the door of my heart in silence. I look at the passing light and ask who is the cloud guest. The past events of Qianfan passing through the border are scene after scene, quietly dancing on the fingertips of my soul. On the long and faltering road, I have worn away the marks of the vicissitudes of time one after another. Time flies, full of the past. In the picturesque scenery, too many familiar things are left behind. The stories we have walked along the way, when we look back at them, leave this extremely distressing sadness.
Those disappeared years seem to be visible through a piece of dusty glass, but cannot be grasped. He has been thinking about the past. If he could break through the dusty glass, he would be able to go back to the long-gone years. The hourglass of time deposits the inescapable past, and the hands of memory always pick up those bright sorrows. The wings of youth cut through painful memories; yesterday's tears stirred up ripples in the heart. The past is like a triangle close to the heart. Every time it is recalled, it rotates once. When the three corners are smoothed, it will not hurt so much when it is recalled.
The hourglass of time deposits the inescapable past, and the hands of memory always pick up those bright sorrows. The wings of youth cut through painful memories; yesterday's tears stirred up ripples in the heart. On a starry night, sit in the watery night and recall carefully, magnify every detail of the past, engrave it with your smile, and warm every corner of my heart. Sometimes you don't know how much you like a city until you leave and remember it. Even tears are a kind of remembrance. Even if I shed tears, I can't go back to my childhood.
Time is like a river. The left bank is the unforgettable memories, the right bank is the youthful years worth grasping, and what flows quickly in the middle is the faint sadness of youth. There are many beautiful things in the world, but not many that truly belong to you. No matter how many memories we have, we can no longer go back to the past; no matter how long we lament, life will still go on; no matter how fierce the wind and rain, there is no need to be afraid of the road ahead. This is the mark of the messy rain. The wind and rain are blowing outside the window, but the scenery in my heart is beautiful. Memory is like water poured into the palm of your hand. No matter you spread it out or hold it tightly, it will eventually flow cleanly from your fingers drop by drop. Some things that I can barely recall now began in the pale and lonely winter.
The gap in the eyes is that we can only see the immediate future; memories are the beauty of life, they symbolize the sweet stream in the life that rushes away, the quietness of always sleeping soundly, the secrets in the heart; but at the same time, it is also the moment of angels and devils, the eyes of sea blue and darkness, the face that can be seen clearly when the light disappears. We smile and say that we are staying at the same place in time, but in fact we have been silently swept away by the torrent. No matter how good the past was, the flavor will fade the more you recall it.
Purpose: Inspiring stories