(Ever since the funny high school incident “My Fair Princess,” I truly fell in love with writing; in fact, the awards I won before are no longer important. I haven't published a journal for a long time. Actually, there is an article I've been brewing for five months, but I haven't dared to publish it yet, and this piece is a derivative of that one.)
The best thing to taste in the world is loss. This sentence has made me think countless times. For whom do we wield the heavenly sword? In the end, I see that rose of yours in the wind. (Elegant, graceful, intelligent, beautiful) — Rainbow Cat and Blue Rabbit
There is a kind of encounter, unplanned, yet heart-to-heart (Backstreet); there is a kind of gaze, unwavering, yet always watching; there is a kind of love, unspoken reunions, yet never abandoning; a trace of sentiment, always following, bringing delicate joy. When mountains and rivers meet, who passes through the mortal world to play a melody on the brightest star in the sky, the lingering sound inviting gentle breeze and rain, urging a tree to bloom? As time flows, who meets by the roadside, anchoring a curve of longing, and in the rhythm of lush greenery and fading blooms, hides the affection of a river of spring water deep in the heart? (Whose melody disturbs my years)
Flowers of dust, blooming in absolute beauty, those lines of poetry that moved the years, still look back with anticipation.
A finger through flowing sand, missing so many beautiful things, walking in the desert of love, encountering a sigh.
I wonder if you've ever thought, every sigh might be the last sigh in the human world.
Those pure vigils are never absurd; they are the weight of life.
It seems the deeper the love, the deeper the forgiveness; some longings always reside in the heart, wandering through the years.
As time passes, just waiting by the water for each other, meeting, it is as warm as spring. On the small boat, waiting for the shore to arrive, just like we wait to see the legendary Dragon Palace. In the flow of time, still embraced within it, is eternal tenderness. I am still waiting, waiting for the woman who smells of flowers.
At a chance gathering, I met you. A trace of freshness, or perhaps love at first sight... I didn't dare to act rashly, afraid of disturbing you... Later, we gradually became familiar with each other. Getting close to you doesn't mean I have a purpose; it's just heartfelt longing, or perhaps this word cannot describe it at all.
The sound of the guitar beats with rhythm, and I quietly contemplate the thoughts of flowing years. Do you still remember that song I wrote for you?The lively melody is like watercolor peach blossoms, blooming your sweet smile, breaking my destiny at the fingertips. The east wind rises, one hand on the strings, one hand playing, the sound of the qin intoxicates the windows, and the flowers intoxicate the beauty. On the blood-stained six strings (guitar), we play, walking together under the night sky.
Do you know: sometimes I find that you are very much like my former self, with a high similarity in personality. I do not even know when it started, learning to care about someone; even your tiniest actions can trigger a strand of emotional thoughts, wondrous fantasies. Sometimes I sigh: humans are indeed a marvelous species. I also do not know when it began, liking to play with you, beginning to worry about you. When did it start that we laughed together, felt sorrow together, comforted each other, and grew together.
One tea, one meal, two dishes, two people. One snip of longing, soaking a line of entangled lingering around the fingers. Are the buildings Zhiyuan and Yifu too far apart, yet they are, living at two ends. When the flowers have passed their blooming season, who can blame the flowers? Flowers need people to accompany them. Afterwards, they hurriedly go to attractions, and then…
You are the woman I have long searched for, sitting on a tour bus, letting the east wind lift the flowing hair of your robe, letting it brush across your cheeks, leaving a refreshing scent of a young lady, as if a flower fairy, becoming poetic in this chaotic mundane world. Sometimes it playfully hits my face, fragrant, elegant, gentle. And I rush to use my phone to take photos of you, not letting you delete them. Little do you know: I am willing to take three thousand foolish entanglements, striving for a career on the Xiangjiang embankment, waiting for you, carrying one persistent thought. I am the already wounded star, at the far end of the cape, looking up for your arrival; yet who writes your name on my satellite? From then on, I no longer seek eternal fame, only the heart of my beloved, never leaving or abandoning until my hair turns white.
You are the woman I have long searched for, white T-shirt sleeves, blue jeans, black backpack, sitting alone by Sunshui River, bathing in a season of floral fragrance, turning back, smiling faintly, becoming a bright scenery. I am the man waiting for you at Sunshine Apartment, waiting for a love that turns longing into a dream. Gazing at the countless stars, turning around, bowing my head, quietly shedding a line of clear tears. If love must be engraved in the bone, then it can be remembered by the heart. Li Zhi once said to Wu Zetian: I am willing to turn into a stone bridge, enduring five hundred years of wind, five hundred years of sun.
Even if fate does not allow us to share a pillow, may I ask, can we share the same boat?
When your hair reaches your waist, and I tie up my black hair neatly, will you let me marry you?
No young deer, no first love, can I hold your hands and offer you overwhelming tenderness?
When I lay out ten miles of bridal adornments, and return to the waterside, holding your hand, singing a song, in the flourishing world, with mandarin ducks and butterflies dancing, accompanying each other in pairs, is that possible?
