In a hurry, use a beautiful prose, with fewer words and more beautiful vocabulary

Green living. Exhausted, I'm going to fly out of the city in search of tenderness or pain lost in the distance.

The leaves of the branches fell quietly, and on the mossy stone steps, the crickets sighed, and then heard the sound of geese falling in the air, and the tip of their noses couldn't help but be sour.

Walking along the river, a faint fragrance wafted from the reeds, slowly bleaching and dyeing. A soft greenery, but the soul of the whole village is soaked.

A few old farmers carrying hoes walked sparsely beside him, but the swarthy ** flashed the agility in his eyes, as if this green ocean had been dyed, carrying a few bits of grass, dragging away.

Where did it come from, this green is so good. The old farmer turned around, looked at me and smiled, his expression wandering in a piece of greenery, moistening a pale heart.

Just as I closed my eyes and thought about this life full of greenery, I heard the light and warm laughter of women in my ears.

Several women shuttled along the riverbank, gently standing on tiptoe, picking a reed leaf, collecting the green in their hands, and condensing it into a faint fragrance. They wandered between the shore and the boat, and every movement was poetic and watery, reminding me of the Penglai boat and the faint fragrance of rice dumplings, which filled the air in May.

They whispered on the other side, sweet but not greasy, soft but not settling, at first there was a reserved cold, and finally, completely indulged in this thick green.

At the door of the house opposite, there was an old man sitting, he gently sniffed the tea in his cup, shook his head, and took a sip. In the shaking of the rocking chair, it seems to have stepped out of time and out of the years. The white smoke of tea rising from the cup condensed into a piece of beautiful jade, hanging around their necks, their lives must be in line with the rhythm of the running of the years, so that the world is no longer superficial.

The footprints of the search are imprinted on this land, and they have become a lingering place, and it firmly occupies my heart. The peasants, the women, and the old man are like waves in the green ocean, poetic and full of green life, forever left among the descendants, turning into a smile, a piece of brown incense, and a cup of tea.

The sound of clear footsteps echoed on the deep bluestone slab, like an ancient nursery rhyme, swinging into the silent castle, leaving behind the trivialities behind, time frozen in the flowing water of this village, those soft dust like sandalwood, faintly coming.

Out of the noise and noise of neon, into the early spring of emotion, the heart that has been wandering for a long time to be refound, this green land under our feet, far from our lives, but in the depths of life, there is an inexhaustible connection.

There is still a little chill in the gentle spring breeze, the remnant snow that has not completely melted records the mist of winter, the grass beside the muddy path has shown tender green buds, looking at a field from afar, vitality has returned.

Simple colors, like an overture, unveil the beginning of a season and the end of a season, winter goes to spring, and dreams return to their hometown.

There will be a rain that will wash away the debris all over the ground, and then the earth will warm up, and the swallows will dance and the butterflies will fly; There will be a beam of dreams, bringing the beauty of the past, and then the heart lake ripples, leisurely silence.

The swallow flies obliquely, looking at the sky without the mystery of yearning, and the clear spring of Ding Dong is a memorial song of youth.

Growing up, in addition to troubles, there is also sadness, lost in the footsteps of the city, forgotten, and profound.

I often walk alone in every corner of the park, a tree or a grass can surprise me, because the hustle and bustle of reality masks the tranquility of nature, and that kind of knowing smile is not often there, and I will feel my true self at this moment.

Loneliness, or loneliness, like a chronic poison, can excite the mind and make the body and mind cold, but it is always unconsciously addicted.

Walk through a city and collect a story.

Eventually, we all became the people in the story.

Written in Jinan on January 7, 2011.

Homesickness overnight spring rain, there are petals falling to the ground. The sound of pain crossed the floating day, and the wooden lattice windows with mottled mud walls woke up in the rain. There was a slight wind passing through. Sigh: Far away, scattered, old ......

Not near, the eye-catching gray old wall in the bamboo green. The desolate and poignant lens embraces reality in a chain, and a tear takes root. In the glittering waves, the cotton wool floating in the wind has long faded to the last wisp of green.

Lonely, old. The cotton wool is more and more, finer and longer. It's like my mother whispering in a dream

Is it snowing? How white is a snowflake?

The garden remains. It's old. Washing slate, moss quietly crawling out.

The faintly whitish stone surface becomes more and more glowing in the lonely day. Think about when I was young, I went to the slate to dry the pods in order to compete with my brother, and the moss at that time was still drunk and sleeping for a long time. When did the time disappear?

Haystack. Sing in the sun. Stack tip, a snooze cat, sleeping soundly.

A few delicate dead leaves, knocked down by the wind, smashed on the haystack, and a faint smell of straw emanated. Two butterflies woke up. Behind the piece of Jinhua that fluttering.

Through the light and shadow, I saw the smiling ears of rice that were bent over, and the smiling faces of my parents. It's another good harvest year.

Look out into the field. Rice stakes are lonely and confide. Some mumble, tugging at the spine of the years.

The wind invites pets at this moment. Gliding across the water, Ripple fled in panic. The sunlight shines through the weeds on the ridges of the fields and photocopies the water.

A sea of clouds of youthful color is firmly encased in gray shadows. Shadows are cloudy. The children are older.

Got married. The days passed through the wind of the years, and the parents suffered. Parents are also like lonely rice piles.

His face was blackened, and his bones were thinned. But he only understands: whether the children in the distance are healthy and happy.

The sun was shining. Sit under the eaves and watch the shadows of the eaves sway like waves with the aperture. Brother, sister and my little children are all chasing in the sun.

Those same childhoods are in my heart again. A chicken walks by steadily. It never understands what is going on in people's minds.

And how do we know what's going on in our parents' minds? And what can be given?

Get together and laugh. Childhood time, like some old movies, keeps replaying. But in dreams.

In the short ** line, how to connect the nostalgia. Lonely courtyard, how can you lock a deep family affection. Go home, like a guest.

In order to live, a few days later, I will carry my bags and drift again. The fence outside the dam is even older. Sparse, loose, staggered.

There are green leaves shining out of the railing, as if to suggest something.

There is rain, close the curtain. My heart is empty and empty......

Zhu Ziqing The Beauty of Broken Sometimes, I even believe: only broken things are beautiful. I like broken branches and withered leaves, and I also like the rusty bell and decadent walls of the old temple; I like the courtyard deep autumn grass, the barren stone steps are dotted with moss, and I also like the lack of clouds and cold stars, and the decay of willow flowers and stems.

These broken things are so ordinary, so light, so downcast, and even so embarrassing. They fall from the pinnacle of brilliance and impeccable brilliance, or fall slowly, slowly precipitate, slowly deform, then shatter, and then come into my sight, to the present day, where glory has given way to others. I don't know how beautiful they used to be, so I can't imagine how beautiful they were.

Therefore, I am deeply immersed in this unimaginable and unsearchable beauty, digging into their glorious past, and then suddenly looking back, pulling these two forms of life to my eyes, and crying. In the process of life from perfection to brokenness, from prosperity to loneliness, there are so many unspeakable joys and sorrows, how many eternal sentimentality and infinite desolation are contained! Again, cruelly, I believe that broken lives are the most beautiful.

I like old people to remember their yellowed youth, and arrogant people to repent of missed love; I like to look back on the pain of the hero's twilight years, and mourn in the mirror after the death of the red face. I love it when people dig out the most painful part of themselves when they are the weakest and most undefended, and then tremble, then cry, and let the mind bleed. At this time, even if I don't know anything about the person in front of me, I will definitely believe it

Those bitterness and suffering, as well as those unrelieved thoughts and emotions, are the deepest imprints and the most cherished storage of his life. Only when he is broken will he reveal his truest face. Lin Daiyu's brokenness lies in her unforgettable love; Sanmao's brokenness lies in her clarity and detachment in the moment after she has experienced vicissitudes; Van Gogh was shattered, and it was the sun that used a golden knife to make him constantly suffer in the light; Beethoven's shattering is a tragic movement of the ultimate spiritual black and white keys striking life.

If the shattering of ordinary people reveals the purest and most beautiful point of light of human nature, then the shattering of excellent souls is like silver flowers blooming in the sky above our heads, bringing us dreams and enlightenment in life. These sad and enduring beauties touched the softest part of my soul directly, and made me laugh and sigh or be silent with their tears—what a sublime touch!

After another drink, the sour taste, I realized that I had drunk tears.

Lonely drunk, I laughed and wept, and my heart of self-blame was shaking.

Drunk again, the gentleness is still so beautiful, deceiving his love, and feeling tired.

Tell yourself not to think about you anymore, your heart is still crying when you're drunk.

Tell yourself that you're long gone, and that sad separation is not something I want.