The rest of the essay is 800 words

Chapter 1: The remaining essay, 800 words

My favorite memories are those beautiful things left by time.

She is the most Chinese woman I have ever seen. Dressed in red, with a jade hairpin, a dignified face and an elegant personality. In this remote town, in this small medical clinic filled with the strong aroma of herbs, she greets every resident with a smile, telling her about Poria and Yellow Throat; on weekdays, some neighbor aunties come to chat with her. , she lost her bookishness and gained more of a businessman's taste, just like their biological daughter, she stayed with them until the end.

When I was still young, I always thought she came from heaven. Otherwise, why would the same Eight Immortals table look rustic when placed at home, but have charm when placed here? She seemed to have an invisible charm that attracted me, making me always run to her on the pretext of helping my grandma get medicine. In fact, not only me, but also many children love to flock to her.

During that time, she would tell everyone stories with a wink. The beauty at that time was like countless stars in the night sky. When the boys came, she told them about the Yellow Emperor, Zhuan Xu, Emperor Ku, Tang Yao, and Yu Shun, and taught them to be ambitious and to stand out in the future and return to the town to repay their kindness; when the girls came, she talked about it. The stories of Leizu weaving silk and Shaohao taming all the birds introduce us to various strange plants. Before speaking, she always likes to tilt her head slightly and think for a while like a bird, as if she wants to take us back to the era of "The Classic of Mountains and Seas" that has been stranded for thousands of years.

One day, medicinal herbs outside the town came from far away. Several companions and I walked into the back room as usual and watched silently as she opened the drawers one by one and sorted and sorted them into various categories. Looking at her busy figure, I suddenly asked: "Sister, why did you come here to open a medical clinic? My mother said that everyone is very grateful to you." Her back was stunned for a moment in a hurry. For the first time, she couldn't answer fluently, and she tightened her grip. Yao Cao's hand slowly dropped. After a while, she said, "I'm going to tell you about a person."

There was an old man who was regarded as the king of a country. As an emperor, he could get along cordially with the people. During countless years, he tasted thousands of medicinal herbs, and finally compiled a book called "Shen Nong's Materia Medica". He said that doctors are kind-hearted. He healed everyone in the world, but in the end he failed to heal himself.

As soon as I finished speaking, I choked. There was no sound in the empty back room. She was smiling again, with tears on her face, so I couldn't tell whether she was happy or sad. But at that moment, I suddenly didn’t want to know the reason. Anyway, here she is. Right in front of me, this beautiful childhood was carefully wrapped up and delivered completely to my arms.

That old man is Emperor Yan. In the hearts of the people in the town, she and he have long been integrated. And those good things left by time, I will definitely pack them up and keep them, and continue to set sail on the ocean of life.

Chapter 2: The remaining essay of 800 words

The sky is like a gloomy net, rendering the main color of gray over the city. The rain is like salt crystals, falling on the reinforced concrete back, as if crackling.

Materialistic desires are still everywhere in the city, just like acid rain, eroding every piece of land and eroding people's hearts at the same time. Under the feasting and feasting, people were intoxicated and drunken. Living in the city, I watch the products of culture travel farther and farther away and disappear. Even the remaining elegant pleasures of making wine and making tea under the flowers and under the moon that I want to pursue are hard to find.

Those remaining literati feelings, free and easy, seem to be submerged in the era of big data.

I didn’t want to do this, so I was thinking hard at home, and suddenly I became interested in it, so I thought that I could look for my old friend in calligraphy and see if he had any leftovers that I was looking for.

Get an inkstone, grind ink and lay it on paper. Look at the inkstone, it looks like a small port by the lake, and the pen pole is a bamboo pole for boating on the lake, looking at the way home like a dream. Thinking of this, I feel like I have returned to the place where the ancients lived, with a long-lost spiritual guide. I know that there is love here and the remaining elegance.

The fragrance of the ink makes me feel happy when I pick up the pen and get close to the ink, and when I don’t have the ink, I feel happy. It’s like the wine in the cup of a poet. I feel drunk when I smell it. I can forget all the favor and disgrace. The clouds are clear and the wind is clear. The light touch of the end of the hair creates a sensation. For a moment, it is the intertwining of black and white, the touch of ink and water. The black and white intersect, like a soft hand, pulling me, running through the white wilderness, and experiencing the true meaning of freedom and ease. , which is the rest of what I'm looking for.

I held my breath and concentrated on the paper, meticulously moving up and down on the paper. My body and mind seemed to be moving on the paper. The handwriting is like orchid and bamboo, written from the heart. The ink traces led me along the way, and I felt as if I had come to the Orchid Pavilion with its high mountains, lush forests and bamboos, and the poems written by literati and elegant guests. I could slump there and see Nanshan leisurely. I seem to have come to the water town in the south of the Yangtze River again. The soft drizzle is embellished with poetry. The sound of washing clothes in the early morning irons the trivial things all over my body. This is the relief of returning to my roots and returning to my original nature. It is the remaining literati's elegance that I can't find. .

My mind and heart are united, and words come from my heart. In the midst of the traffic, I saw a woman standing in the busy traffic, staring at the world quietly. She is the embodiment of calligraphy culture. She walked through the palaces of Qin and Han Dynasties, danced through the peace of the Tang Dynasty, sang through the rise and fall of the Song Dynasty, and ran Passing the beacon towers, escaping the chaos of war, in the drizzle in the south and north of the Yangtze River, under the interpretation of the sound of silk and bamboo, in the calligraphy culture, one can stand for a thousand years. This is the remaining cultural root I am looking for.

In the misty and rainy Jiangnan, with ink painting slanting horizontally, wandering among calligraphy, I found the remaining literati feelings and cultural epitome that I had been searching for. It is the support of my spirit and a treasure that cannot be lost.

With the rest, I don’t have to pray for rain in the burning house, wander alone in the snowy night, or sigh for what I have lost. So, thank you for the rest and let me take care of you.

Chapter 3: The remaining essay of 800 words

I stood beside the old house, with infinite sadness welling up in my heart and choking in my throat.

This is still the grandfather’s old house, but the only living things left are spiders hanging from the eaves, shivering in the wind. The wind is like an injured lone wolf, whimpering sadly. I also wanted to cry, but after the story, the tears dried up and I was left alone.

Without my grandpa, who can I talk to? What's the point of the rest? Who should I live for?

Pushing open the wooden door, it is still the familiar wooden bench and the familiar position. Turning left is the kitchen, which uses a straw-burning stove. The stove that had warmed me for countless winter nights was extinguished. Beside it lay half-used hay. When the snow fell heavily, Grandpa would light the stove and add hay little by little. The flames lit up Grandpa's face, a face engraved with traces of time. Just using a small stove lights up my whole winter. I remember my grandfather once said to me: "People in the village say I am old, but I don't believe it." I just stared at his snowy white hair and held his hand tightly. How could such a determined person be extinguished?

But reality finally defeated him. He lay on the bed, smiling and closing his eyes with contentment. He had already asked his children to take over his vegetable plot. I thought, I really don’t understand him. What’s so easy about managing a vegetable garden?

I walked through the alley and came to the vegetable garden. I suspected that I was going the wrong way: a large field of sunflowers like a heat wave! The golden petals are as bright as the sun, and the solid green stems are as thick as mountains. When the wind blows, the sunflowers hit us with waves of golden waves, which is an overwhelming shock.

I finally understood why Grandpa cherished the vegetable garden. Maybe someone scattered the sunflower seeds in the soil, but in the rural soil, the sunflowers rushed to break through the soil. From such tender little buds, to branching out, growing leaves, blooming in countless reincarnations, chasing dreams towards the sun, Taigong witnessed their growth. In the remote countryside, at most one or two old men wearing straw hats would pass by smoking cigarettes when the sun was setting. But the grandfather couldn't bear to watch the patches of sunflowers die, so he watered them. They live up to expectations and bloom towards the sun in decades and forever. They probably don't know that their grandfather has left, but no matter what, they can't stop looking at the sun. That's their dream! They are the treasures left by the Grand Duke, inheriting the will of fire until the moment of exhaustion of life.

What is left are old houses, wooden benches, stoves in winter, and flowers in midsummer. The so-called successors refer to those who have a will like fire, and are the people who will succeed the grandpa to pursue his dreams.

I set out on my own path and understood who I was living for. The will burns like fire, and together with the shining sunflower, we embark on the journey to pursue our dreams.

Chapter 4: The remaining composition of 800 words

Midsummer is approaching, and the Dragon Boat Festival is approaching.

To the common people, Qu Yuan’s jade-blooded red heart is not as green as the glutinous rice; Qu Yuan’s Jiangli Qunzhi is not as dense as the aroma of the glutinous rice and reed leaves. People breed culture.

"One strand of red, one strand of orchid, the strands are woven together, and the picking and picking are in harmony." At this time of year, my grandmother always hums those songs that are on people's fingertips, and leads me to sing nine songs. The symbols of the Dragon Boat Festival are woven with eighteen curved thoughts.

"The leaves pass by Sanshui, carrying people home." Grandma was combing the shiny glutinous rice leaves and recounted her past life. "This song is quite long." The grandmother's tone rose up, her eyes were as cool as water, as if they contained a waterside flower pond, memories and happiness bloomed inadvertently, "There is a river in every house, and there is water. , crystal clear, it feels quiet and cool to the touch. Wash the glutinous rice leaves and sing a song, the singing by the water is in harmony with the water..." It flows in my heart, right? However, watching my grandmother recite a few untuned sentences over and over, I understood that the melodious melody blooming on the tips of the pale red flowers had already sung the distant and ancient times and was left by my grandmother in the long river of time. Those who are left behind will be lost in history along with the rolling dust. As for the reason, probably "time only helps people grow old" is an explanation.

Actually not.

Midsummer is here, and the Dragon Boat Festival is coming.

The sweltering heat was kept out of the house. At the quaint, polished log table, my grandmother and I sat opposite each other, playing with summer things. The shell of duck eggs is white and feels like fluorite, which seems to glow brightly and softly at night. After soaking, the glutinous rice is white and plump, as white and fat as a doll. The refreshing rice fragrance fills your breath. The plums are plump and juicy. If you taste one secretly, the fragrance of the whole summer blooms between your teeth...and many, many more. There is a gentle, quiet and almost pious expression on my grandmother's face, and her smile is like the crisp bird song that suddenly touches the leaves in the quiet forest on a hot summer day. It is melodious... This is our result. The home is tidy and new, with new paper cuttings. For window grilles, carefully select ropes of matching colors to hang under the eaves. I also laughed at my grandmother, who failed in any of the four literary arts of "burning incense, ordering tea, hanging pictures, and arranging flowers".

Then we waited for our family to arrive.

Came and went, took the glutinous rice dumplings and duck eggs, and disappeared without a trace.

There is only one room left that has been sadly and carefully decorated.

The air was filled with the strong and sad fragrance of realgar wine, like a gauze with the dim spring color of the setting sun, gently gathered on the grandmother's face.

Therefore, those customs and feelings that grandma talked about and regarded as treasures are just things left by others, even grandma herself. Times are moving forward rapidly, and people's pace is even more hurried. Who will pay attention to those customs that have gradually been lost, and who will care about those old people "left" behind by wanderers?

Time is like water, refreshing, cleansing and cool, but it is also ruthless like water, taking away all kinds of memories.

Midsummer is gone, and the Dragon Boat Festival is getting cooler.

Chapter 5: The remaining 800-word essay

The mottled tree shadows, the pale setting sun, the red paint peeled off by the years, the crumbling high walls, these are the leftovers of time. The dilapidated altar below.

The squeaking wheelchair, the gloomy face, the painful roar, the depressed and complicated mood, this is the incomplete Shi Tiesheng left by fate.

The so-called life, there are too many painful memories, and the only thing that will be owned is what is left.

When this despairing young man stepped into this deserted garden, he seemed to have met another version of himself. He unknowingly broke the tranquility of the ancient garden, but in exchange for each other's new life.

The land is overgrown with weeds, leaving a winding track. He has never forgotten that the remaining marks on his limbs have forever sealed his anger at the injustice of God in his impetuous past. Just as the death of the Temple of Earth is to usher in new life, Shi Tiesheng's pain is to create a strong self. Instead of lamenting the happiness taken away by fate, it is better to accept God’s exclusive luck. Only by losing a stable support can one fly to heights in the sky that ordinary people cannot reach. Rather than saying that he missed the colorful world when he gave up walking, it is better to say that the world can no longer retain a self-liberating soul.

What is left is a peaceful state of mind. Escape from the busy and flashy life and create a vast and peaceful time and space outside the imprisoned body. "Because of my existence, history has been interpreted in an unprecedented arrangement." Lighting up the candle in his soul, he looked at the source of history, watching the famous and unknown lives passing by; he looked at the future and saw "Death's show" is waiting for the end in the distance. The altar of earth remained silent, from the beginning of spring when bees and butterflies danced, to the snowy cold winter, it only silently accompanied him in his thoughts, thinking about the dust-laden war, and thinking about the long-lost peace. The two cuddle up and stay with each other endlessly.

What is left are expectations for the future. He wrote in the unvisited Temple of Earth, under the silent care of his mother, in the noisy and prosperous city, following the branches thrown by fate, looking down on the end of life, leaving only the solo dance of his thoughts and the rush of his pen. In the summer, the altar, filled with the fragrance of vegetation, seemed to be cast into a ray of golden sunlight. The dusty city walls and crooked beams were all shrouded in the halo of hope. People encountered Shi Tiesheng's dynamic writing and fell in love with this ancient altar that had gone through many ups and downs.

"In this weird world, no one can live a smooth life." Maybe there is really no smooth sailing in life, but the weight of the luggage and the forks in front of us are all waiting for our own judgment and choice. Those who are left are firmly in hand, and the answer of time will surely be worthy of the bumpy journey.

Chapter 6: The remaining essay of 800 words

Injecting fine wine, buying fine wine, and filling it with thousands of red cherry blossoms is just a thing of the past.

There are more and more things left that make people miss and miss you, stroking your beautiful face just like a thousand years ago, and sighing with emotion.

The world only loves blue and white porcelain, few people pay attention to you, celadon, one word difference, completely different attitude and treatment. When you walk in the famous capital of Jingde, you can only see blue and white porcelain. I can’t bear to see you. As a What is left is the product of porcelain clay, left alone and left in the cold.

In a corner of the town, I unexpectedly came across a small pavilion made entirely of celadon. Different from the shoddy ones found in other stores, they are exquisite, graceful and refined, gathering the strength of stars and the softness of stars and the moon, just like moonlight. Melting. I quietly stepped into the small pavilion surrounded by celadon, fearing to disturb some small whispers.

The person who made them was an old man who was calmly pouring water into the blastoderm wrapped in porcelain clay. His hands seemed to have a layer of light gray-blue left over from years of making porcelain. The small pavilion is quiet and the celadon is silent. There are not many people here, it can be said to be rare. My fingertips touched the bottle with a clear light, and a faint coolness spread from my fingertips, slowly flowing from the meridians and into the heart where the blood vessels gathered. In a daze, I heard the sound of the pulse flowing, like Has it been suppressed for a long time in this world, and finally made a loud noise today? Has it been silent for too long? Has it been ignored for too long?

For thousands of years, things have changed, and the past is like a passing cloud. In this land, wars are raging, and the enemy's cavalry has given excessive false alarm to the mountains and rivers. You come from the land and have been shaped by the hands of craftsmen. After being calcined in a porcelain kiln, it stands between heaven and earth in an unusual posture. People go from generation to generation and come from generation to generation. You fell from Wang Xie's hall in the old days to the homes of ordinary people, and then disappeared in this flashy gold-mining era.

I don’t know when the old man left the workbench, staring lovingly at those ingenious beauties. I knew that they were his children, just like him, silent. The years have left ruthless traces on his brows, and they have also gradually wrapped their helpless emotions around those beautiful artifacts. “It’s all leftover.

"The old man sighed softly.

Is the rest really just the rest? How many times have the grapes been ripened on this land? How many fresh faces have they changed? The past, How can we count it down? Now that I think about it, how can we see the afterlife? Are the rest really just the rest? People always long to stand in this world and become eternal bodies. Decayed, their souls were annihilated, and they became the remnants of history, but they stood calmly between heaven and earth with an immortal attitude, witnessing the changes on the Xuanyuan land with a kind of indifference and calmness. People's joys, sorrows and separations are really what's left? They are what's left, but they are also eternal.

Caressing your gentle face that is independent of the world. , the passage of time washes away extremes and timidity. Unlike blue and white porcelain, it is not as gorgeous and complicated as it is to please others. It is never your character to be observant of words and emotions. You would rather be in pieces than to be in ruins. , this is you, what is left of what people say is useless

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