Old memory composition

No matter in study, work or life, everyone will inevitably come into contact with or use composition, which requires a complete text structure and must avoid an endless composition. How to write a good composition? The following is my carefully arranged old memory composition, welcome to share.

Old memory composition 1 I went back to my alma mater during the long vacation and saw it. It changed a lot. The camphor leaves around the plastic playground fell to the ground, and there were pictures of various sports postures on the cultural wall. Of course, there are many little secrets on it-many people will keep their secrets in their hearts, such as boys or girls who have a crush on them for a long time, people they hate, or their dreams, right? Yes, I used to be one of them, and I wrote my dream on it. I watch it by the cultural wall, and sometimes I laugh. I forgot where I wrote it, only a rough place. I haven't found it for a long time, and I'm not very persistent in looking for it.

A person is standing on the huge playground, slowly turning around with open arms and closed eyes, taking a deep breath, and his mind is full of memories of this homeland, and hot tears keep falling, and I don't know why I am crying. I always thought that I was not nostalgic, because I was not happy during the three years here, and even wanted to escape there, including memories about it. I never mentioned it, almost with my classmates.

Looking up always feels a little uncomfortable. Originally, the two phoenix trees between the playground and the teaching building disappeared and were cut down, leaving only two bare trunks. Those two 70-or 80-year-old buttonwood trees used to be what we hated most, because their leaves were old and blown away by the wind, and more than half of the schools could be seen everywhere. But suddenly I thought, in fact, the phoenix tree flying all over the sky is still pretty.

There used to be no small garden on Crossroads, but many square flower beds were built with a big statue of Confucius in the middle. We used to like to bring snacks to this small flower bed, and we also like to secretly stuff garbage in the flowers and put barbecued wooden sticks in the soil of the flower bed. In the past, in order to save money and eat more, the teacher stipulated that you should punch a meal card every week, and you can only go to the school supermarket twice, and you can't go after class for ten minutes. You have to wait until noon and afternoon. Once, a classmate couldn't stand the temptation of ice cream and secretly bought it. As a result, he was caught by the teacher. The teacher also asked him to put ice cream on his head for a lesson. Now there is no supermarket in the school, and the name of the school has changed. Memories remain in those three years.

On August 28th, it was dark and the sun was covered by layers of dark clouds. However, Shanghai South Railway Station is still very lively. Those who were going to leave by train didn't notice at all that a small group of heavily armed Japanese soldiers were approaching the entrance of the railway station. With submachine guns in their hands and bullet bags hanging around their waists, they quickly scanned the busy people around them with wolf-like eyes.

Suddenly, a commander-like man raised his submachine gun and shot at the noisy crowd. Several young people at the ticket gate were frightened by this sudden attack and immediately fell into a pool of blood. Those children who sit in front of the podium and have a rest and play, some of them are timid and have long been scared to cry; There are also some courageous people who fled in all directions. The whole railway station is shrouded in fear, and there is a murderous look in the air.

With the buzzing sound, several bow-tie fighters of different colors and shapes fly here. I saw them hovering over the railway station like fierce eagles, dropping several bombs and then flying away. The South Railway Station, which was bustling an hour ago, suddenly turned into ruins.

A series of immature cries came from the ruins of the South Railway Station, and I saw a little boy sitting on the blood-spattered ground crying helplessly. He is in rags, his thin body supports his huge head, and he is obviously a poor child with malnutrition. He is a poor child and the luckiest child. When the enemy dropped the bomb, the young parents put the sleeping child under their bodies and provided him with shelter with their lives. A few minutes later, a steel plate fell right on the couple. ......

When the child woke up, he could no longer find his parents among the unrecognizable bodies around him. The child may have realized that the person who loves him most has left him, and he doesn't know what else to do except cry.

This is a small fragment of the disaster that war has brought to mankind. Of course, the poor child was taken in by a kind passer-by, and the grown-up children appealed to the whole world: "For children not to lose their father, wives not to lose their husbands, and old people not to lose their sons, people all over the world should act in unison to ring the death knell of war for the new 2 1 century and make this world a real home for mankind."

When the footsteps of spring approach us, we will open our arms and wait quietly. When the war and gunfire break out again, we should pray with our hearts that people all over the world will be bathed in peace in the spring breeze.

I stumbled across some childhood photos today. It's interesting to look at them, so I line them up.

The first time was when I was the youngest, when I was lying in the cradle and sleeping with my eyes narrowed. Hehe, so cute. The next picture shows me riding on my father's neck, looking so happy, holding my father's hair with my little hand, as if to say, "Dad, I am taller than you." In the next picture, I am sitting on a walker, and it seems to say, "Come and see, everyone, I can walk." I picked another one. It's me riding a scooter proudly. When I saw the last photo, my happiest time popped up in my mind. This is a scene where my teacher and I are hosting a program together. Seeing this, I miss the teachers and children in kindergarten at that time.

After reading these photos, look at me now and find that I have changed dramatically. These "memories" are really precious. I must cherish it.

Today, I received a phone call from a friend I haven't contacted for a long time and talked about how to create with the theme of "Old Times". He suggested that I compare myself with my former self and my present self, and I advocated adding a lot of lyrical words to match the literary atmosphere of the old times. On the other end of the phone, she smiled happily, but suddenly she was silent. She said slowly, "Maybe I haven't contacted you for too long. I'm a little strange to your current personality and I don't know what to talk to you."

I remember that many students have forgotten their looks, names and words because they haven't been in contact for a long time, but they have left a series of vague images in my old days.

Everyone has a story, a long story. You may not think of it often, but you will never forget it. Occasionally, I will think of walking around with my friends when I was a child, jumping squares, kicking shuttlecocks, playing in circles hand in hand, and then pretending to be dizzy, scaring my friends into hiding and laughing secretly. At that time, there was no so-called distinction between men and women, and it was naive and simple to be with boys. In junior high school, I pretended to listen carefully in class, but a hole was drilled in the desk and a novel was hidden. When the teacher is not paying attention, time always passes quickly inadvertently. In high school, everyone's ideas gradually become complicated and no longer simple. Some people chat intimately with their classmates, while others overhear friends gossiping behind their backs, and then secretly hide in the toilet and cry. At the thought of Mother's Day, all the students bought gifts in advance and chatted excitedly about what to say to their mother. On the afternoon of Mother's Day, they all ran home with presents, and I had to kill boring time by myself and clean the dormitory at night. Then, I lay on the empty dormitory bed, thinking and looking at several almost empty dormitory buildings outside, feeling quiet and lonely. Later, I went to college, met new people and started countless new stories.

As time goes by, my friends say that I have changed a lot. I used to live a ruthless life, but then suddenly it was quiet for a long time. Now I am stubborn and often miss the old days. My best friend said that my time was painful and happy, and my nostalgia was looking for abuse. I will brush my past trends repeatedly, thinking about myself who was a little green before, thinking about my old friends who I haven't contacted for a long time, and looking at their names, which are unfamiliar and familiar, and I often look at them, and I don't know who to talk to or what to talk about.

Stories are fermented in time, and the secret is only known to oneself. In the passage of time, many people can't help it. Grasp the people, things, things and memories with you in time. You can try your best to catch them and hide them in your heart!

Old Memory Composition 5 (1) Time has dyed the paper roll yellow, and every word, you and I are separated from each other. Perhaps, in those years, we were still young, and that casual love was too far-fetched. Tears accompany parting, perhaps because of the beginning of a flowery smile. It is in the memory polished by time that winter belongs only to you and me.

(2) Love is like a flower trap. The deeper I love you, the only thing I get is disappointment. Maybe love is too far away for me to even think about it.

(3) I opened his window and found it in his memory that I was just a passer-by.

(4) Let me leave the paper roll covered with Guangmo to those years that have gone by.

(5) The Milky Way rotates and life cycles. I am waiting, waiting for the next true love.

(6) Time ink stains old memories. On a cold night, coolness passes through a waiting heart. The wandering back fills a person's heart.

If people can really become stars in the sky after death, then I would rather die and wait for you silently in another way.

Old Memories Composition 6 Every time I open the book in Volume 2 of Grade 3, I will always think of my hard education with my teachers, such as teaching us truth and being a man ... but the deepest experience this book brought me was when I was studying the first 10 lesson.

That time, when I was previewing, I checked this and that. Finally, I wrote a lot, but I didn't know which one to talk about in class the next day. That was the most time I took notes.

Another time, when I was studying the first 1 1 class, the teacher brought two carambolas, and we gave them to us when we got the right answer.

It turns out that books can be learned and recalled!

Every time I see those old textbooks, I feel that they are the source of my knowledge, which contains a lot of rich knowledge. Every time I read these old textbooks, I feel that I have increased a lot of knowledge.

There are many short stories in the old textbooks, from which I have learned many great truths. I like these old textbooks very much, so I will cherish them.

Old Memories Composition 8 Old textbooks make me want to take us with the teacher, which makes us full of curiosity and wisdom every time, and also makes us not raise our hands once and tell us some jokes.

Reminds me of one thing, that is, I use textbooks to play racing with my classmates underground. OSHI sent a message and was scolded by his father that night. I dare not use books as toys anymore.

I am used to nostalgia because I can't see the future.

I still remember that although I was hated by one person and had only a few friends, I loved myself very much, took everything seriously, understood the difficulties at home and made positive progress every day. At that time, the days were monotonous, and the only gains were awards and certificates. It seems that I didn't put my mind on friendship at all and alienated everyone. And people who hate me always play tricks on me and sow discord every day, and there is nothing I can do. The idea at that time was simple. I just want to get rid of that person in class, get a good grade and let my parents pay attention to me for a while. I never knew what hate was at that time.

I still remember being hated by that man later. I have two close friends, most of whom are my friends. It's not good, but it's not annoying. My mind began to wander in class, but my biased teacher repeatedly asked me to answer questions, and I always got the right answer quickly. So, smug, I simply threw myself into the fun. The days are still monotonous. It has become my life to avoid the sneak attack of boys and the language attack of girls every day, being late, skipping classes, doodling and playing games. But I can still receive an excellent report card. My parents, who are far away from home, always call to ask about their grades after the exam, and seldom talk about anything else, so my Excellence can always cover up my rebellion. At that time, I never thought about what the future was like.

I still remember that later, I was still hated by that person because my study was far away from me. At first, I laughed loudly with those classmates, but I always looked at my good friend absently. I never saw anyone again. I am still rebellious. With my own heart, sometimes I will run out on a whim in the self-study class, or doodle, or pick flowers, or bow my head in a daze. The teacher talked to me many times, but in the end, I always felt sorry for my amazing achievements. I often go to school alone on a path wet with dew, and my heart is very scared, but my face is expressionless. I often stay alone in the classroom after school and stare deeply at this familiar space. I often walk alone after school, watching groups of students frolicking in front. I am willful, disobedient and stubborn, and I don't look back when I hit the south wall. For these, I am silent except silence. At that time, I didn't love myself, but I was very distressed. I feel sorry for myself who is always lonely, for myself who is lost when I watch my friends having fun, and for myself who wants to go to my dreams. At that time, I never thought about what reality was.

Now, I don't know if I'm still hated by that man. I have many close friends and countless friends. I wander between reality and dreams, and idealism makes me miserable. I can't try any harder. I laugh and play with my friends every day. Every exam is rote learning. I am keen on reading novels and comics and a series of extracurricular books. I love writing, painting and photography, and yearn for the distance. All kinds of unrealistic ideas make me hate studying and this place. As a result, my grades went from ten to ten, then to twenty, and now to thirty. In fact, I also care about my grades, because my father's hard work and my mother's white hair are hidden in my hair. However, I have begun to be tired of learning and give up on myself. I can't find the feeling of boiling blood anymore, and I'm not interested. I have a deep understanding and feeling about friendship. My popularity has been very good in recent years, and I know many people will hate me gradually. This kind of hatred is different from the hatred that that person had at that time because of jealousy. This is a heartfelt dislike for me. I also know that I am completely different from the original. I am rebellious and proud, and even quarrel with my friends for things on my face. I am stubborn and always suspicious. I am hilarious and playful. I laugh at everyone and hurt some people at the same time. I deeply understand their impatience with me. I'm sad, but I know I deserve it. I began to become silent again, and the circle was deserted because of my few words. They also began to chat with me, but I was no longer as talkative as before, and always ended the topic in a few words. I think, if I am strong, I won't stab them unless I keep my distance from them. I don't love or hurt myself now, but I pity myself for doing everything silently to please others but not being known. I pity myself for being at a loss in friendship, for being exhausted because of obsessive-compulsive disorder, for not being trusted because of fooling around on the surface, for looking up at a star in the dark, for being self-abused because I hate myself, and for never being truly understood. At that time, I didn't know what I was at first.

Later, later, I didn't like to talk, but I talked the most every day. I don't like laughing, but I keep laughing. People around me say that my life is so happy, so I think I am really happy. But why am I suddenly silent among a large group of friends? Why am I sad to see a similar figure in the crowd? I forgot to talk when I saw the leaves falling madly in autumn, and I forgot the original direction when I saw the warm yellow light on the road as it was getting late. I have many quirks of my own, but in order to keep normal and conform to the secular vision, I hide them, and therefore, I ruined my talent. Later, when I knew everything, I knew nothing.

Many times, I miss the past, not because it is beautiful, but because I am afraid to forget it, and I have nothing.

Old memory composition 10 Some people say that photos record a story because she is eternal; Some people say that photos record a person because they are true. But I think the photos record unforgettable memories.

One day, while tidying up my desk, I found an old photo. It was sandwiched in a thick book. Pick it up and bring back infinite memories.

The picture shows me smiling brightly, next to an old lady with a vegetable basket in her hand. That old man is my grandmother. Last summer vacation, my father would put me at my grandmother's house for a few days. At that time, it was still before dawn. Grandma went to the vegetable garden on that hillside to pick oranges for me. Grandma's vegetable garden is colorful. Green vegetable fields, smooth stone wells, tall orange trees and purple mulberries. Not only that, but also all kinds of small animals. Fat wasps lie on cauliflower, and swift larks sometimes cross the grass and soar into the sky. Sometimes you can hear crickets; Open a big stone and sometimes you will meet a centipede; There is also a follower. If you put your finger on its spine, it will smack and spray a cloud of smoke from behind. The oranges are just ripe at this time. Grandma brought me a bunch of oranges when we came together. I peeled it off and tasted one. Wow! It's really a faint fragrance and a thick sweetness. So, my grandmother asked, "When I come back again, can you leave me some oranges?" Grandma smiled happily: "Of course!" Then, we laughed heartily. The yard echoed with our laughter.

However, after that. Because dad went to work in Wuhan. So I can't come back often. Then one day, I heard that my grandmother was very ill and couldn't walk. Dad and I went back to see her. When she saw us, she propped herself up and went to the kitchen to get some oranges. He handed it to me and said, "This is our agreement." At that moment, tears welled up in my eyes.

I will never forget this old photo. I will never forget my grandmother.