Anyone who seeks original writing and is lonely and melancholy is not allowed.

Autumn doesn't seem to be the season. An autumn word is a poem.

The fallen leaves are getting thicker and thicker. I leaned down and listened to the thick heartbeat in the ground. Look up, I said that clouds are also leaves, and travel together.

Miss is burning slowly, and the candle is beating with a faint yellow light. Diary is an immature orange. Inadvertently turned over, it still smells of youth. Ink makes the handwriting a little fuzzy because of humidity, but it also tempts me to see the past bits and pieces clearly.

Outside the window, the leaves were raining, and I fell asleep in a trance. The children running in the wind are still smiling innocently, and the one curled up in the fallen leaves is clearly my hometown.

Xiaoqing was my childhood playmate. He has a mole on his left arm and mine is on his right arm. He grabbed my arm and compared it with himself, even in the same position and size. He repeatedly surprised, saying that we really decree by destiny, I nodded desperately. Now that I think about it, isn't it just a boil? How can it be said that it is fate?

After Xiaoqing moved out of the city, I often thought: If we meet again, maybe we should hug each other and cry like in the movie? However, at a station five years later, we really met. I said to him: Long time no see. He paused and smiled slightly embarrassed. Hehe, I'm going to get a room. Say that finish and hurry away.

Memories in time, black and white slides generally pass by, surprises, bitterness, grievances, emotions, and winds blow away the past. How can we resist the unconscious reincarnation?

I walked between two tracks, the train passed by, and the light and shadow changed. One is to the future, and the other is to the past. The future slips away in the second before the finger touches, and the past passes in the second before the finger touches, leaving me. Where are you going?

There is a small thorn buried in the palm of your hand, and it always hurts every time you make a fist. Grandpa said that everything has to pay a corresponding price, just like standing higher can pick more fruits. What about the memory? What needs to be reduced to deepen it? Make it lighter. What needs to be deepened?

A familiar child came from the clouds. I hugged him with open arms and stroked my short hair. In a trance, I also feel like a child. A familiar old man came from the clouds, hugged me with his arms and said with tears in his eyes: My childhood.

Maple leaves are like fire. From a distance, it is the sunset glow. My pure love for maple leaves has nothing to do with feelings and years, just like when I was a child, I was in a trance for ten years.

Some things are so pure, so pure, I can't tell, as if they were predestined in previous lives, and you love for no reason.

Actually, I'm not sad. I just stood under the rows of poplars, listening to the wind, the rain and the leaves. Yes, I'm just listening. This made me hear a lot, spring, snow, grandma's warmth, her cotton-padded clothes and her hands.

The leaves are falling like rain. Actually, I'm already hungry. I clearly know what I'm doing. The red, orange, yellow and green emotions are twisted into chopsticks, wet and without a drop of rice. Actually, I know everything, but I know nothing. I doubt the meaning of leaves raining like rain, doubt myself, doubt the meaning of this doubt, and don't know what to do to be considered not to waste my life.

Leaves are falling like rain, and I said I don't want to go home. Leaves like rain, I said I had forgotten her. Leaves are falling like rain. In this season that is most suitable for missing, I said to myself: You didn't do anything, but you really didn't do anything, just poked there like a dead tree, and your heart was not quiet, just not quiet. I said to myself: you are a layman after all, and I argued: living in the secular world, aren't everyone a layman? I stopped talking and gave up this boring question.

It is said that there are three realms in life: "first look at the mountain, water is water, then look at the mountain, water is not water, and finally look at the mountain, water is water." I don't care if it's like a tongue twister. Golden flames, falling leaves, solid dry land, burning all over the mountains, but tempting me, making my indifferent heart miss, making white clouds no longer white clouds, making leaves not just leaves, remembering and remembering, what I miss has become the most important thing.

How can you say that "I'm worried about adding new words" is a derogatory term? Too often, you should not only say that you are sad, but also say that you are happy, and you should say that you are not strong. Life seems to encourage you to pat you on the shoulder and barely hit 60.

Speaking of hypocrisy, I suddenly remembered a paragraph written in my diary when I was 16 years old: Let yourself lie in the snow all over the mountains, let yourself shout and throw snowballs, and let yourself smile the most brilliantly until you are too tired to stop, only to find that you are still old.

I have to say that I am extremely hypocritical. Why should I pretend to be an old man at an almost pure age? However, what did I think that day? In fact, I did lie on the snow, but it didn't snow much. I did throw snowballs, but I didn't shout. I looked at the smiling faces of my companions and thought, if I am an old man, if I return to this place one day, if it snows, what will I look like? So there is this passage in the diary. Do not ask why you think of yourself as an old man. I can't tell you for a while.

From then on, I feel that sometimes some words are not necessarily melodramatic, but may be related to imagination.

At first, I didn't think about the word happiness. Then, when I think about what happiness is, I begin to understand sadness.

Sadly, when I learned about sadness, happiness was hidden in the fog, even though it was beside me, I couldn't find it. Later, sadness and happiness became a Taiji diagram. I have you and me mysteriously, but I can't tell them apart, or I have already distinguished them ... Later, I tried not to make everything so clear. I found that many times, when you see through what you want to see through, you realize it. Before you see through it, you are looking for happiness, but when you see through it, you are cruel.

As for what is happiness? I only know that whenever I am desperate, a voice in my heart will repeatedly say to me: no matter how long time has passed, there is an emotion that has never changed. No matter how far the distance is, there is always someone waiting for me without regrets. No matter whether I have nothing, there is a place that will open his warmth for me at any time. Thought of here, the magma-like temperature in my chest may be called happiness.

People will be born one day and die one day. With some happy days, sadness will be reflected. Prosperity will eventually turn decay into magic, and ordinary will continue to be ordinary in the corner. Anyway, one day it will be dull, leaving only memories, waiting to be blown away by time in other people's minds. ...

Passers-by hurried over the leaves. I stood where I was, tightened my brown trench coat, turned around, headed south, and never looked back.