Lonely

Just turning around, it was the misty rain. Stepping into the deep of the night with a patch of muddy water, the dim light reflected the rain beads on his face. At that moment, loneliness climbed into my heart. I wrote poems alone in The Flowers of May, sitting on the stone beside the water flow. The sound of water is roaring like a poem in my heart. Just as I was writing those words, a bang rang from behind me. I subconsciously touched the back of the head, touched a mass of sticky paste, and then looked at the hand stretching back from the back of the head. It was black and white mixed bird droppings, which was unevenly smeared on my palm, of course, there are also on the head. Looking up at the blue in the needle leaves of the fir tree, there was no trace of birds in the sky, but the bird droppings had fallen on my head. After getting out of the luxuriant leaves and washing his hair in the stream, the poem which had been brewing for a long time disappeared. I was not angry at all, but I secretly felt inexplicable joy. Bird droppings should have fallen on the stone under me. I once saw it there, but now it fell on my head just because I was sitting here. How deserved it is! Birds have regarded me as a child of nature, just like a stone under their feet and a tree in the forest. At this time, loneliness is a kind of beauty that can be met but not sought. As time goes by, it is difficult for birds to drop feces on your head for the second time. The trees in the forest don’t talk, but you can’t sneak into their queue, bathe in the sunshine, thanks to the rain, let the birds nest on your shoulder. Yesterday, we listened to the rain under the eaves. The street lamps were like orange flowers, blooming on the green grass. I will talk to you about this secret corner, the flowing water outside the branches, the mushrooms under the fir tree and the filigree in the corner of the wall. Maybe you didn’t hear the running water, smell the mushroom, or see the vegetable. But you pointed at the lamp on the wall and said it was a certain dawn sun. Poetry rises from this forest and dissolves into the patter rain on ginkgo leaves. You left and left me the golden sunshine. No one heard me talking about a dried earthworm lying on the flagstone road in front of me, surrounded by a group of ants. I am willing to be a storyteller, but I am not willing to tell the story to myself. Two people, even if they don’t talk much, even if they can’t understand each other, are better than talking to themselves and telling stories. I felt a little disappointed unexpectedly. I don’t know if a person will become dumb after being alone for a long time, and can’t talk any more. I have never seen a silent bird, but I have heard countless hoarse birds. Birds are so smart that they always find a playmate to sing in the forest, while I write the story on paper alone. Loneliness grows slowly, and the soul is submerged in the green grass and trees. We will always launch a breakthrough and climb over the mountains to find the antidote that has been treasured for many years. In that summer six years ago, I lived in the small mountain village where I raised me, sitting under the eaves alone listening to the rain. Raindrops fall into the yellow water Dada from the black corrugated, and the drops splash water on the stones. I saw the laughter of walking on the path of the past year at the tip of the water flower. Lying on the bed at night, listening to the raindrops on the roof, thinking of some trifles with my old friends, I didn’t fall asleep over and over again. The next morning, I couldn’t stand it any more, so I decided to climb over the mountain behind my house and go to my old friend’s house. Climbing up along the muddy road, you need to pull the branches on both sides of the road from time to time. The path which had been abandoned for many years was tightly covered by trees. The rain accumulated on the leaves poured on my clothes, and the yellow mud on the road surrounded my shoes. My steps became heavier and heavier, with water flowing all over my body, and finally I had to give up. Then return the original road, clean up the yellow mud on the feet by the stream, and walk back along the main road in the valley. The road to overcome loneliness is destined to be muddy, and sometimes it is really impossible to go out. Retreat is a helpless choice, but there are flowers and birds on the way to retreat, and the stories written on the paper will also be read by someone. A person who writes a lonely story silently will not feel lonely. Like (prose editor: drops of ink become wounds) the snow in spring Spring elimination snow, multi-the yao nian, unspoken. Reading from afar, it is just above that snowfield. 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