A collection of essays, a collection of beautiful essays, a collection of beautiful essays

There is no post station in youth.

The wind and the moon flow. Time has taken the same steps, walking unhurriedly, through spring, autumn, winter and summer, and through a month of cloudy and sunny days. Looking back suddenly, the days that have passed away are like a shaking kaleidoscope, inadvertently shaking out an impersonable pattern, and the gathering and dispersion and joys and sorrows are out of print. So I knew that youth was a one-way bus, and there was no post station to return.

The morning bell and dusk drum urge me to raise the sail of the voyage, but my heart is like a leaf nostalgic for the old branch, hesitating in the wind of yesterday, and it is difficult to start from me. I also know that I shouldn't delay the trip, but I can't get rid of the fetters of emotion, I can't seal everything I have in the castle of memory, I lock my birthday tightly, walk through the sunset and the moon every day, as if standing in a clear river, the clear river is the life I have and only have once, but I am standing in the water too often, let the water upstream flow through me and then become the water downstream, let the future flow through my present becomes the past, but I lose today and tomorrow because I am too obsessed with yesterday, So there was nothing.

I often imagine what kind of state of mind it would be for me to sit in yesterday's memories with snowflakes on my head and chew on the stories hidden in every ravine on my face when Chunhua and Qiushi have become history! should have understood a lot and believed very little, but he was still confused by the joke of "the wolf is coming" again and again; It should be a fairy tale that is more in love with spring than winter, but is still nostalgic for the "snow child". The distance traveled seems to be a circle, and after a long journey, it returns to the starting point.

So a lot of times it's doing the same thing, which is looking for a goal.

I once meditated in the darkness, and finally deciphered that the simplest grass withered grass Rong is a kind of mystery, which is the intuitive teaching aid of life: flowers can only be red once, and grass can only be green for a year. The deceased is like this, like the smoke of the past.

It has drifted away with the monsoon, so why bother to pursue and reminisce. The train of youth carries countless passengers, and no one can predict what will happen along the way, and no one can return to the starting point of their own boarding. Since I have no choice, let me crush the frustration and wishful thinking I once had on the rails of time, and then push open the doors and windows, bask in the fresh air and sunshine, and welcome a new journey.

Because I already know that youth is a one-way bus, and there is no return and no post station.

Sanmao's "The Story of the Sahara", "The Rainy Season Will Not Come Again", "Gentle Night", and "How Much Do You Know About the Flowers in Your Dreams" are all narrative essays written by her travels around the world. Zhang Xiaoxian's prose is also very good, all of them are very beautiful and sentimental lyrical prose.

Zhu Ziqing's moonlight on the lotus pond.

"The moonlight poured silently on the leaves and flowers like flowing water. A thin mist floats in the lotus pond. The leaves and flowers seem to have been washed in cow's milk; It's like a dream wrapped in a light veil.

Although it was a full moon, there was a faint layer of clouds in the sky, so it could not shine brightly; But I thought it was just right – a good night's sleep is essential, and a nap is a special flavor. The moonlight shone through the trees, and the shrubs in the high places fell jagged and mottled black shadows, and they were stunned like ghosts; The sparse shadow of the curved willow seems to be painted on the lotus leaf. The moonlight in the pond is uneven; But light and shadow have a harmonious melody, like the famous song played by Fan Jingling. ”

Left Hand Reflection, Right Hand Youth".

At the last moment of 2001, I stood on the balcony and watched the dark night sky and the occasional deserted fireworks on the canopy, the night breeze blowing coldly, and I saw the time of the prudent year surging and rising in the palm of my hand, and finally returning to calm, leaving indelible traces and watery mild years. And the angel walked over his head without a sound. "

I love this kind of text!