Journey

There was a small river on the other side of the dream, which flowed into my dream in winter that year. The Dream was dense and the reality was hazy. I vaguely remember the winding river, the gurgling water, and the round cobblestone head full of riverbed looking at the blue sky and dreaming of flying. I hummed a little song, singing leisurely, stepping over the dead leaves on the ground, heading south towards the Purple Bamboo Forest at the farthest of the road. The road went further and further, and the long twists and turns seemed to have no end. It is a bamboo forest that can never be touched. In a flash, the Purple Bamboo Forest gradually turned into green and suddenly turned into red maple forest, which dyed the whole time and space. Then, it turned into a mist, hiding all the scenery, and I also lost my dream. After dawn, when I woke up suddenly, I remembered this dream severely. I also let this dream float in my memory. I walked through in my dream. The scenery, people and things in my dream are enough to fill my memory somewhere, and gradually turn into stories and hide them in my diary. I remember that I once said: I want to be a firm traveller and record every scenery with my heart. It’s just that mine has passed for a long time, but where is my suitcase? From the Past till now, my parents didn’t support me to go far away alone, so that I was always confused about this question: is the world too bad or am I too stupid? Don’t try to travel, I am never get the answer. Plan a long journey to see more scenery and make more passing by become beautiful memories. I didn’t have much scenery to pass by, so I kept paying attention to everything around me. Even a small wild flower was enough to surprise me once. On that day, when I passed by an alley with weeds and wild flowers, I was suddenly attracted by the delicate and lovely yellow flowers. But I can’t call its name, it is so small and looks so meticulous, although the small petals next to it can’t give off fragrance, but it exudes an indomitable tenacity and cries to the world that it is also a flower! The white butterfly heard it and was willing to leave after dancing around it. I smiled, stopped the bike, picked up a few small flowers and put them in the basket. I wanted to keep them on my desk. When I picked up these small flowers, I looked around with guilty, and left hurriedly while nobody was there. Because I thought wishfully that a girl as big as me should pick these small wild flowers. If such a scene was seen by the elders and passers-by, it would be a joke to me. Anyway, no one will pay attention to me passing by, let alone what I did, just like the withered flowers beside the road. Every day at work, there is always a tall kapok tree passing by, and there are several pedantic willow trees beside it. The Rhyme of willow branches blowing the wind is indeed full of poetry, but it still cannot leave swallows flying. I saw the only kapok tree standing on the roadside abruptly, and it was full of green shade to withered yellow to full of red branches. Every form of brilliance will make me touch my nerves with different feelings: vitality, sadness, indifference, and even reincarnation of fate. The mood will also be suddenly lost, just like the falling leaves on the tree, and then all the dreams of love flying will be sad. The passing planes in the sky carried away all the courage to fly silently until the plane clouds dispersed. Waving goodbye to the plane in the air, looking at the plane disappearing in the farthest place, but thinking of the hole-broken Kongming Lamp again, a pity that he could not fly. Leaves are wings that cannot fly. Such lyrics are enough to grieve all emotions, and that melody is enough to sing all sadness, with the impulse to cry. Emotions are disobedient monsters, which are easy to be controlled. Sadness is the synonym of youth, and everything seems harmonious and normal. Leaves are just flying passing by, with the brilliance of falling to the ground, and persistence that cannot be broken. Streets and alleys, people come and go. Passing by, walking side by side, walking to the left, walking to the right are all passing by in various forms, and they are all rushing to the next stop. And how to listen to and remember the story? It suddenly occurred to me that boy who often came outside the house some time ago. He always shouted a girl’s name at the corner next door at dusk. Later I listened carefully and heard clearly that it turned out to be the name of the sister next door, but the sister next door never answered, and that boy always disappeared around the corner after shouting a few times. I snickered, the way that little boys chase little girls is still preserved till now, which reminds people of people and things in the past. Everyone will be everyone’s passers-by, and there will always be a story on every passing person. If you see and hear it with your own eyes, you may also be able to tell your own story, and then say: it is really familiar. I walked through the years, and walked through sections of roads, streets, places where my eyes stopped and places where my eyes met. I didn’t want the scenery to be beautiful but only for the breeze, the clouds and the vast sky. After that day, let me tell you affectedly: I passed by the scenery you have seen, more sunset, less night wind, more fallen leaves and less green shade. The wind brought by bicycle makes me listen to your voice. More calm and less sentimental, more regret and less sadness, more and less all become the scenery I have seen and become the song of journey. 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