Writing a Composition, Why Did the Teacher Notice the Revolving Door?

Have you ever walked through a lantern? Just write and take some things for granted.

"Your hands are not naturally suitable for sketching..." The new teacher stroked his non-existent beard and looked at me as I drew a simple picture of Venus with a broken arm. There is indeed something wrong with my hands - they can't stop shaking slightly, and the more nervous they are, the more they shake. Although it has little impact on my daily life, in the world of sketching, it has become a shackle that has always constrained me. After listening to his questioning words, my hand shook even more violently, and finally with a "click", the half-used pencil fell straight down. Time seems to have stopped, and all that is left in the world is the pencil lying on the ground and the infinite silence. "You should leave the sketch class." I don't know how long it took, but when time moved again, he took a look at my painting, shook his head and said. At this moment, I only heard a thunder explode in my ears. In an instant, my world trembled because of the sudden thunder, and I closed my eyes almost in despair... When I opened my eyes again, I was leaning on the jade railing, standing by a small pond. In front of you is the lonely moon and falling flowers, and in the distance are endless mountains and rivers. Inadvertently, the book in my hand stirred up ripples. Looking at the ink-colored line "Su Xinhua vs. Su Xinren" on the cover of the book that was soon soaked, I suddenly realized: It turns out that more than 1,800 days and nights have passed since the last morning when I was immersed in sketching. On that day five years ago, by the same small pond, I experienced the first cold winter in my life. Later, I really left that class and ended my relationship with sketching. And I didn't give up on this pond. Based on my parents' opinions, I chose Chinese painting after careful consideration, and out of some indescribable emotions, I changed my study time from morning to night. Once upon a time, I could always meet the rising sun on the road. Later, the one accompanying me turned into a bright moon. Fortunately, I get along well with Chinese painting, and through significant progress, I have received a lot of praise. Many people have asked me if I have ever been involved in sketching, and without exception my answer is "no". I used inferiority complex to seal my past. When I started to swipe my simple brush, the dripping ink brought an end to my childhood. Childhood... Mentioning this word, many things always run out uncontrollably. I remember, besides sketching, there was also a very important person in my childhood. "If you're not happy, just change another place and continue studying, it's no big deal!" In the sky, the sun broke through the clouds and mist, emitting dazzling light; on the ground, she was riding a bicycle, carrying me, who was depressed. "We are different. You are the proud daughter of heaven, and you will definitely be able to soar, but I... Am already a loser, maybe I can only look in the corner." I glanced at the boundless sky, then subconsciously quickly buried my face in the thick collar, and said dully like an ostrich. She stopped the bicycle suddenly and turned to look at me, who was hanging his head and seemed to be unable to recover. "I always thought you were better than me, don't let those who believe in you down." When I looked up after hearing this, what I saw was the burning fire in her eyes. The past is vivid in my mind, but unfortunately, since she and her parents went north, we have been separated from each other and have never seen each other again. Time, the big hand that touches everything, makes some things disappear quietly, but makes some feelings more profound. Today, when the childishness gradually disappears and the edges of the boy become more distinct, I want to solemnly pick up the pen and outline for her an exclusive memory that belongs only to me. In my impression, she is like a refreshing and gentle poem. Sometimes she gives guidance to people around her in the form of wind carrying gravel, and sometimes she makes people around her feel warm in the form of rain carrying the fragrance of flowers. She is so special that I don't want to use conventional painting methods to trace any of her postures. So, while waving the brush I had been with day and night, and with her distant but still clear encouragement, I picked up the sketching tools that had been put aside for a long time. In the intersection of ink and lead, I thought about my expectations for the future, and for the first time I calmly tried to persuade myself. Time is ticking, and when the pen tip leaves the paper, a special work appears in front of me. What is shown above is not only her face, but also my choice - It is filled with the tenderness of ink and the toughness of lead. It is not a Chinese painting or a sketch, but a brand new carrier that belongs to me. It has a huge meaning to me that is difficult to describe in words. I have always known that I do not have the wantonness and freedom of "I travel far to seek immortality in the Five Mountains, and spend my whole life traveling to famous mountains", nor do I have the talent and talent of "I am strong when I think about it at the age of seven, and sing the phoenix with my mouth". However, the figure that has become more vivid after the baptism of time makes me understand that the past is not something to be afraid of. Just as Moye died with his sword, I can also translate emotions into writing. Even if I can't stand at the pinnacle of life like Nezha and shout "My destiny is up to me, I can't help it", I will definitely be able to use my future to crush the denial of the past. The me of five years ago spans time and space, holding the hand of me now, so powerfully. At this moment, the fire that once burned in her eyes quietly fell into my heart.

Brothers, please leave some comments for me in the book. Comments are very important after the revision.

There was no way for the public to cross the river, but he did so! What would happen if he fell into the river and died? He stood by the bridge and used his small ferry boat to ferry the passers-by. It is said to be a ferry, but it is just a boxy frame, rickety. He was standing on the other side rowing the oar, and the waves were so pious that he could not reach his toes; I stood on the opposite side of his empty sail and oar, and the sound of the rushing water was the breeze that could not flow through my fingers. We occupied the only place on the boat that could stay, in the middle of the hollow, but the river water at the bottom could not be seen. "Old sir, where are we?" He slowly swung the long oar in front of him, and a few whistles stirred up thousands of miles of smoke. I imagined a solitary owl flying into the sunset in the sky, but when I looked up thousands of miles away, the black gauze that was difficult to see through was stuffed into my eyes. There was no solitary owl, let alone sunset. There is only a section of black bridge, standing on both sides of the turbid water. "The hanging bridge is the Naihe Bridge, and the turbid bathing water is the yellow spring water." The old man recited a poem, and his sleeves swayed with the swing of the long oar. He turned away and ignored my noise. It turns out that I am already dead. The tide poured into my mind, and the past events surrounded my mind like a revolving lantern. Things in the past slowly became clear. I saw the illusion that was born like me, stuck between my eyebrows. "When did you die... There are many people behind you. The sooner you think of it, the sooner you will be reincarnated." .... So, I began to look back on my life. I remember when I was eighty years old, the twilight old man was lying on a white hospital bed. The autumn colors are waiting for the fallen leaves to return to their roots, so that they can return to their hometown in the vast sky, exchanging three seasons of freedom with winter. And I am autumn. The last goal, when it leaves, I will eventually return to dust.... "Hurry up and get on the road with me." The God of Si Qiu stretched out his palm and looked for my heart, and then picked off this heart before the cold winter. I responded, perhaps life and death were decided, then I would never look back. "It's snowing - waiting for winter to hide...!" I heard the north wind rising, the sky howling, the king calling for death, the disease has no cure, the goose feathers are all over the city, and there is depression... But I can't see it. I closed my eyes and came to the other shore. Perhaps, when my life truly withers and ends, I will already be dead. "Maybe I died in the winter when I was eighty years old." "Think about it again and look forward. Maybe that day is further ahead." The boat did not stop, and the light wind stirred up waves on the river, making my toes wet. I found the wrong one, I died on an earlier day. I continued to recall my past, and remembered one day when I was sixty years old - That was the day I retired. I held the square cardboard box with my forty years in it. "You have worked hard all your life, take a good rest." My subordinates put a coat on my shoulders, and the autumn wind was blowing outside. They waved their hands and sent me out the door. No one walked out of the door. I looked back and saw that it was the mountains and seas I had crossed. They stood on the top of the mountain I conquered, overlooking me falling from the top. Of course I am not worthy of them going out to see me off, so these forty years of hardships have been left in this inexpensive coat, and there is no more left. I am a candle that will eventually burn out in the flickering. Perhaps, I have been dead since the corners of my head gradually became visible. "I may die in the autumn of my sixtieth year." The boatman shook his head, and waves splashed from the bow of the boat, which wet my knees. I am looking for the earlier past. This time, I went back to when I was forty years old. At that time, I was reborn and no longer young. I looked at the face in the mirror whose youth had disappeared, and my face was filled with sadness. "Am I getting old?" I asked my wife in front of me. She did not raise her eyes to look at me, as she had done so many times over the years. "You're in your forties, what's the use of caring about these things? My best friend has enrolled her child in a new class for 10,000 yuan. I plan to enroll Xiaoyu in one as well. You can choose carefully during this period..." I was shocked. Looking at the girl I vowed to spend my whole life with, now she is a mother, and the once ardent love has been pressed into broken happiness by the trivial rest of her life. Romance may be dead and withering in my world. It is summer, cicadas are chirping and grasshoppers are dancing. Perhaps, when my life is like a dead tree hollowed out, stupidly supporting the sky that I think it is, but no more self-starting left, I will be dead. "I may die in the summer when I am forty years old." The boatman did not respond. The waves on the side of the boat stirred up white mist, which gradually confused my pupils. The waves are getting bigger and bigger. I turned around and went back to when I was twenty years old. I was young at that time, and I was at the age when I was whipping my horse into high gear. I was the age when a high-spirited young man was willing to spend time and money. At that time, I was a hopeless bastard, hating everything in the world, but I could only clearly remember that I existed. "I will not die at the age of twenty, that is the spring of my life." I looked at the boatman whose face was covered, He did not speak, but just lifted the oar from the water of the Styx, bringing up the big waves of the Styx... I fell into this section of the river, and in an instant, I went back to a long time ago, "When I grow up, I want to be a writer, a real writer. I raised my head proudly, for the dream I was mentioning. "You? Even passing math is a problem. Do you still want to be a writer? Which well-known college can you get into? How much logical thinking do you have to write a book? Even if you write it, how much money can you make? Xiao Li downstairs studied IT in one month at the age of 25..." I was stunned. I thought my parents would support my dream because... Oh, I forgot, in this world, there is never a reason. "I understand, I will study hard, and I will also learn IT. " Is this right? Right... It turns out that I died on the day I lost my dream. Later, I became the disgusting person I was twenty years old. The young man who is miserable in the world, The forty-year-old middle-aged man who is carrying a heavy mountain like a burden, The sixty-year-old old man who is like a slut and no one cares about him, The eighty-year-old Bingxue Yi The dusk that melts into the world... And all of this originated from my youth, an age that should have shone like the stars. "Death is not the separation of consciousness and body. It's not the death of cells and blood, it's... "Losing my heart." The old man finally smiled, and the black cloth covering his face was blown away by the breeze. Of course he looks like me, of course he is me. "Go, give yourself another chance, start from the heart, and walk again." Twenty years later, at the Shisu River, beside the ferry. "Old man, I want to cross the river." I sat next to the old man who was fishing by the ferry, and we were as familiar as friends who had been friends for decades. "How can we cross the river without a boat or an oar?" The old man didn't even look back. The grass carp bit the hook. This was his harvest. "My heart is my boat, my dream is my oar, the road is long at night, and I will die without regrets." The huge waves hit the rocks beside the Shisu River, making a heartbreaking sound. "The waves are too big. It's easy to get down, but you can't get up again." He seemed to be trying to persuade, but he was careless. Of course I know my ending, but so what? I will defeat Shi Su in the end, right? I turned around and walked towards the rolling waves spanning thousands of miles. This time, I want to save my heart from physical death. Since crossing the river, those who cross the river are destined to die, But the majestic epic left behind will attract thousands of me to cross the river. We will use the death of our physical bodies to pile up and build a road to the sky for future generations, hanging high on the secular river! The old man finally pulled up the grass carp, which weighed nine kilograms. I know that life is like crossing a river, but I never believe in fate. It has been doomed from the beginning.

In the dew moon of the Jiawu Year, I climbed to the Taibai Tower in Dongtong. There was a dangerous tower that swallowed the moon and raised eaves to lock the clouds. Suddenly I saw the banished immortal with purple robes and jade belts riding the wind and pouring wine into the river and sky. I was so excited that I composed this poem: The mist is the curtain, and the stars are the bells. The corners of the eaves are broken and the sky is wide, and the sound of waves is heard when the stone steps are broken. The banished immortal leans drunkenly, and the railings are photographed all over the world; today I am late, and the clouds and mist are blown away by my clothes. I think back then, the brocade robes were scattered and the wine cups were drunk. The powerful man took off his boots, and the ink stains still stained the golden pillar; the noble concubine studied the inkstone, and the peony soul was drunk with poetry and wine. However, how can the immortal pavilion with high locks in the temple be as peaceful and carefree as the rivers and lakes? Tossing corals for wine, smiling at the snow falling on Mount Emei, listening alone to the noise of the White Emperor's monkey. Tonight the river and the sky are as old as before. Who will share my love? Under the Three Yuan Pagoda, the water patterns are still poetic and cold; on the shore of Dazhou Zhu, the waves are still stained with ink. Cut off a ladle of Milky Way to pour wine, and cut half a piece of Kunlun for preparation. Summoning the whale riders, reciting Liang Yuan poems again, startling the diving dragons to crack the rocks, and the wild gulls retreating from shame and throwing themselves on the island. Suddenly I saw clouds opening and the bucket handle tilted, and I suddenly heard the sound of jade pendants in the sky. The exquisite moon suddenly rises in the center of the river, shining through the ancient ice of thousands of mountains. The soul of poetry was originally immortal and turned into a star of literature and music. In the morning, it is Kuanglu Waterfall, and in the evening, it is the sound of the sea. Thinking of Taibai in those days, people and gods fell in love with each other. Three hundred poems were written on the banquet, each word inscribed in gold and stone.

We all died suddenly and were reborn at the age of 25, so what do we 90-year-olds do...