"Our Youth Has No Place to Place"

An article I saw on Baidu many years ago

A youth disaster that has long been predicted, a drop of tears falling on the paper, the story begins like this, embarking on the journey of the heart The train with the heart runs far away in the desolate wilderness of youth.

A past love, a season of decadent youth, a way home, familiar with the alarm clock left by time, always using sound to tie the knots of each beat. As we embark on the road of life, we look back at the places we visited. We are familiar, but there are scattered footprints in twos and threes. These footprints cannot be repeated. All that's left is the melancholy of body and soul, and what we have becomes familiar. Everything familiar is no longer in memory. It's late at night, and she doesn't want the cold moonlight to stay on her window sill. Missing someone is like drinking a glass of very cold water, and then using it for a long, long time to turn it into warm eyes drop by drop

Don't ask Taozi about his collection of peach blossoms, don't It is said that love is a gorgeous outlet for loneliness. It is just a process of self-anesthesia and then awakening. Nostalgic, slowly began to feel different. The years are blown so helplessly by the wind. Youth is a memory that passes between the fingers, which can never be erased. Sometimes, we can't forget that the flowers have withered; but sometimes, we can't remember that the flowers have bloomed.

Summer is a rainy season. Tell yourself not to mention it again. About that season’s obsession.

There is always something so beautiful that it takes your breath away. It is the perfect mark of deep love from the heart.

There are always some things hidden that are surprising. It's the fear that comes from the body, the deep-rooted memory.

There is always some hidden pain that is admirable. It is the immortal brand that grows from the bone marrow.

Close your eyes gently. The deep sea of ??distant and alternating memories suddenly appeared before my eyes. What appears in my mind are the countless twists and turns and the face that I have never forgotten. There are too many secrets hidden in my heart, and I have never stopped exposing them, because there is no end to them.

Who misses me so much? Whose promise is boundless. Who is singing that long and beautiful love song, a sigh, the feeling comes from the moment when we parted, and the loss comes to my heart. Who is playing in the middle of the summer, playing a song of Mayday. Who promised in Banxia, ??promised to me forever. Some stories require all your strength to be experienced. And some memories need to be remembered for a lifetime. I have seen a person's gentleness, it is a legend. As the years go by, I have no choice but to remember who it is for. No matter what, we can't be free from worries. From now on, what remains incomplete is the corner where love begins. After a thousand hopes, a thousand twists and turns in my heart, I chanted loudly, and when I turned around, he had disappeared. Disappearing does not mean leaving. Disappearance is just a matter of oneself, there is no need to say goodbye. When you say goodbye, you leave. I walked into the sea of ??people, not because I was lonely, but because I had nowhere to go... When things were right and people were different, I was immersed in happiness. When things seem different and people are different, I reminisce sadly. When things pass and people fly, I calmly forget. The cocooning game ends when the prosperity falls, and the flowering period is finally missed inadvertently. I will miss you in such a summer. I have never had any arrogance, and in my limited memory, the lingering feelings are mottled and intertwined in my lifetime. One day, you will solidify into a beautiful posture and freeze it forever. This is the yearning for this summer, right outside the window where we met.

Shallow longing cannot get out of the lonely circle of smoke. Look, look, the big clouds outside the window are all parting gestures; listen, listen, the jasmine in the forest is a lonely sound. Jasmine bloomed with a smile, and her heart was intoxicated in the season of departure. Who was drunk that night? I lost my way in the morning breeze and the bright moon. Lifting up the endless sky of this summer, I saw the dancing of angels, the jingling of footbells, the wrong dreams of the flowering period, and the longing for the past like a lover.

Standing on the street corner facing happiness, all that is left of this city is one person's swing and two people's memories. The arc that was once raised is now insurmountable. I like to look up at the sky at a 45-degree angle. Crossroads, red lights, green lights, pedestrians, vehicles, come and go in a hurry...

Looking up at a 45-degree angle, an unbiased angle, the light and shadow under the setting sun cannot be seen clearly. Tears in the corners of the eyes. I once thought that if I had just watched silently at that time, maybe the subsequent story would not have happened.

As the years pass by, flowers bloom and fall, and the four scenery changes. What makes us sharp, cruel, and hysterical after all.

Looking up at the sky at a 45-degree angle, I heard that tears will flow back into my heart, only letting you see my blooming smile. Standing in the purest posture becomes the best proof of our warm existence.

I don’t know if looking up at a 45-degree angle is the loneliest thing. But, when I look up at the sky, I will remember to smile. That brilliance that you thought was always present on my face. Forty-five degrees is actually just a way of looking up, just like we like the blue sky. But throughout our lives, even above the clouds, we cannot touch it with our hands. Some people and things are just suitable to look up to.

An endless river is called the distance. A ticket without a return trip is called wandering. A call that has no echo is called loneliness. A string of footprints without direction is called hesitation. Finally, one day, when we look back at our youth in the hourglass, there are not many colorful gravels left. So when we begin to miss the youth that has passed by, we actually find that when we have youth from the first moment, we begin to lose it.

Opening up the long-dusted memories, those hidden feelings gradually came to my heart, step by step, bit by bit, converging into an intoxicating smile on my face. A smile that is driven away is loneliness, and a smile that cannot be driven away is also lonely. I think there is a person living in my heart. Be able to face and bear the weight of longing calmly.

At the beginning of the bustling night, people without love are alone and sinking, talking nonsense, and scattered words are written and deleted, and there will never be an end. Always waiting, waiting for tenderness. But I don’t know whether the day is waiting for the night, or the night is waiting for the day. I still remember that the dusk that night was the most charming, knowing that people were lonely, sending the bright moon and dawn to the wind. It was a thin moon, and the thin moon walked alone, with deep sorrow of separation... With tears in my eyes, I asked the flowers without saying a word, I have no plan to keep you. Gradually, loneliness faded into my heart. Along with my habits, I gradually drifted away from the bustling crowds. Travel with a different kind of determination.

Clouds are rulers, used to measure my heart; water are scissors, used to cut off my sorrow. The thin moon and the miserable wind can't drive away the loneliness, adding to the leisurely sorrow. The flowers are easy to fall, the rhyme is broken, the fragrance is scattered, and it is suspected that the heart is drunk. Sadness and loneliness are sown at the same time, like Yi'an's rain that urges flowers, but a thousand strands of sorrow are found in the tender heart; like Empress Li, the sorrow of separation still grows like spring grass when she travels further, she keeps cutting, and the reason is still chaotic...the flower shadow is thinner, and it is cold. Voice. Like a gust of wind, like a gust of heavy rain, like a gust of falling flowers.

People say: The bright moon and the dawn breeze are the gentlest. I sigh: The thin moon and the cold wind are the most emotionally painful. Silently blessing, the little fingers gently hold each other, and the thumbs deeply touch each other. One finger is lonely, the other finger is happiness, and then, stick to it for the rest of your life.

September is a decadent season. The wind blows through the bleak leaves, reminding you of your inevitable destination. The sigh of a leaf whispers many broken dreams. When I look back lonely, the sky is without the smile of the stars, but the night wakes up the legend of a dream. The words on the tombstone are used to commemorate the dead, while the words on the paper are mostly used to end a life. The pale rice paper is smeared with black characters, each word is delicate, and a face flows on the ink. The painting is lifelike. The beginning and process of recording become a romantic and elegant painting, but I don’t know who is sentimental and printed it on the paper. The wandering sadness is drowned under the cloud of ignorance. Who has seen it? Loneliness is floating under the stupid clouds, who notices it?

Chilling the scorching heat that invades midsummer, sadness continues to expand. The dancing sun boils the rage of a summer, and the churning heat wave recognizes the wind. The movement of the wind is also the movement of heat. There is no need to move, my heart has already moved. In the translucent winter night, the tranquility submerged the past and the future, so ethereal and heavy, like the beating heart of a bird, the footprints of a baby, and our youth that has nowhere to rest.

Who has ever come back. The weeds gradually disappeared the traces, and the hourglass of time buried the reflection of the new moon. Whose traces, whose years, your shadow is still sad. The rubbings of each chapter will not turn yellow or disappear, and the quicksand will leave sadly. In those seasons when we were far away, those happy smiles quietly came back together with the rolling monsoon. Did our youth that had nowhere to place really exist? It was brushed away so gently, like a fleeting beauty. Thinking about it many years later, I don’t know how to face it, how to treasure it, how to calm down and recall the past events of my youth.

In the torrent of time, I began to grow up. The growth rings of the old banyan tree bear traces of time. Mottled memory, the texture is clear in my heart. Stories don’t stay where time is. Four years in length, two hours of black and white light and shadow. The summer heat wave is still flowing in this southern city, and the sunshine all summer covers the campus with tree shadows.

A group of strange young people, some with immature faces, stood under the tree that leaked light, and the sunshine was filled with joyful laughter. Those who once laughed and cried were then broken and disappeared.

Four years later, the summer solstice slowly slid across the calendar, and sadness swept over me. The setting sun casts our sad shadows, which are very long and parting across the entire campus. It was midsummer, and the weather was so hot that people didn't want to talk. Everyone said goodbye to each other, and we really never saw each other again. The floor-to-ceiling windows reflect your silhouette, which hurts my eyes. I forgot how long it was, but I stood in front of a familiar face, but I couldn’t pronounce the name, leaving the awkward dialogue frozen in the air. Memories are collapsing, annihilating the moist heart. How many nights have I been dreaming of you, you will always live in my heart. Summer is overshadowed by the next, typhoons darken the sky and blow sad winds across the wilderness.

Youth is gone, sadness is no longer there, and I cannot gather the urge to compose new words to express my sorrow. The flowers in late summer shrank at the end of dripping blood, and I smelled the fragrance of the decaying body. Whose fan is inlaid with hollow tulips, dazzling and blurry like the initial bloom, and the expected beauty loses its deep color. It is fragmented, mottled and colorful, mixed with a little helplessness and fear. Tell me, after leaving, do you miss me or feel sad. When the sunset is at its most beautiful, your smile will be frozen forever. There is sadness in the smile, and there is confusion hidden in the tiredness. Already covered in old dust, frozen in the long, circling, and entangled story at the beginning or end of the story.

Forgetting is our unchangeable destiny. At the floating subway station, the train roars past, taking away the temptation of pinellia. Maybe the misplaced story really should be forgotten. The bumpy sound of the bell remains unchanged even after thousands of miles. The tightly held hands were still torn apart by time. The plane tree in the corner, the old wall that witnessed love, finally fell down. I turned the next corner and disappeared.

My palms were sweating, and an inexplicable cold wind woke me up. One summer later, you still appear in my dreams. One summer later, there were continuous typhoon forecasts and the sky was always hazy. The thoughts blown by the wind and the scattered memories are waiting to be collected by me. The memory of reincarnation is fading, and I will firmly engrave the stories of my youth. Falling red flowers are arranged in the shape of longing, the petals are falling, and the fragrance is falling for ten miles, hiding an unspeakable love word.

The lights dimmed in the distance, and the bustling place began to become quiet. In the deserted Central Park, wall-creepers are gradually covering the walls. At three o'clock in the morning, the fog gradually lingered, and the starry sky was bright on the quiet summer night. The words you have said, the books you have read, the words you have written, the songs you have listened to, your laughter, your tears. The songs we sang, the flowers we planted, the movies we watched, we cried and laughed together. I will remember it, I will remember it. Summer is ending, we are growing up, and dreams are gradually dissipating in the wind. It turns out that memories really do grow old. I am not a brave person, but I know that we all need to be strong. Time flies like water, the prosperity is exhausted and withers in life. However, the maple leaves filled with dreams are engraved in the rings of youth and are still as beautiful as spring.

The prosperity of youth, the tenderness that passes in the blink of an eye, whose face is so dark, piercing the dawn sky. The wind passed by and the flowers fell, leaving only the lonely branches and remnants that fell to the ground. Saury will expire, canned meat will expire, and even plastic wrap will expire. In our lives, we will meet many people by chance and then pass them by. I encounter too much warmth, but I don’t know how to place it properly. And at the end of the story, the people they meet are always so quietly alienated from their own world. I finally understand what fate is. Yes, I begin to believe in fate. I believe that many things are destined. Some people are destined to walk through life, but the traces they leave behind cannot leave anything in their lives.

Those flamboyant youth will inevitably fall into the trap of cliché in the end. I left the scene lonely, unable to find my original courage. Those words that we keep thinking about when we are in trouble have long been scattered somewhere? Someone else continues to hoarse palely. We must learn to grow up and not live in past memories. I have always thought of myself as a warm child. Although, I have been justifying myself.

Youth disappears like water in the extended folds of time. If life is just like the first time we met, we will never forget each other in this life. At this point, I understand that the flowers will eventually wither, the years will eventually fade, and the night is still lingering. I am walking at the end of time. Mint grass lives on the windowsill and wakes up to the light. I think it would say that such a rainy night can only be sleepless longing. And I hide in a certain time, carve the palm prints of a period of time, and walk alone at the end of time.

The frosted water glass suddenly broke, and the intertwined fragments made people feel distressed. In the desolation, I saw the small wish I made a long time ago. It turns out that waiting does not have to be so empty. My youth is so pure and white that I can't see too much sadness. Even at the edge, some kind of spiritual power makes me smile. Those days and youth seemed to be intertwined, and the sadness drowned out the next period of sadness. Thoughts that are never forgotten throughout the year. Thousands of tears were shed, and only sighs remained.

In the passing years, the ancient embankment spread throughout the city. A faint blue, the same color as youth. The youth covered by publicity, the hem of the skirt never said sorry, the rainy season is approaching, the red umbrella, I, standing on the street, looking up at the sky, the rain is pouring in. Like a fool, contemptuous of sincerity.

Summer is far away, I can’t remember what to do. We enjoy it so much, it hurts so much. If I love you, I will love you so much that I want to kill you. Then there is no pain and only happiness remains.

The wind stopped. Looking up, I couldn't see the clouds or the pale sun. Whose face it is, I can’t see clearly. Over there at the end of the desert, my dear, I'm waiting for you.

Familiar and unfamiliar sounds, the voice is hoarse, the surroundings have lost their luster, and you, who can’t see you leaving, wear a sarcastic smile, but you are baptized with tears again and again. If you give me a little dust of longing, I will be in a happy place, see you smiling, and become so happy!

The lips became cold, and the last bit of strength was torn away. Finally, you and I no longer have to act out the innocent and beautiful puppet show. Day and night are confused, I am the black swan replacing the princess, never the protagonist.

Filling in the notes one by one on the staff, humming the music, dancing back and forth on the keys with your fingers, imagining that in that sweet and sad youth, we sang flamboyant songs and danced domineeringly dance. Youth is originally a beautiful hymn, but we used sad instruments and played it into a funeral song. When we stand at the end of the years and memories begin, it just becomes soothing and quiet light music. I rotate through the seemingly stationary midsummer light years. Looking back, it's another year of glory, and you are entrenched here in slow motion. I play back the flying light again and again, whether it is your morning light or my golden year, neither deep nor shallow, outlining all the warmth like lotus. At this time of year, the flowers are not sleeping. When the wind blew away the yellowed letter paper, I finally couldn't help but sip the fragrance of those years. However, I can no longer be surprised by the light water lines like silk. On a certain year and in a certain month, I wrote these words neither too deep nor too shallow. Until now, I can look back gently and call them: youthful past events. Many people gathered and dispersed. Many things come and go. It's for remembering; it's for sacrifice...

Each story comes to an end, and each story begins again. In my dreams, I always run so flamboyantly into the wind in the wheat field. When I get tired, I lie down and simply like to look at the blue sky above my head. At that time, happiness was on the land where I lay, under the sky that I could look up at; happiness was in the smile at the corner of my eyes, in my peaceful and pure soul... No matter how hard it is to find, that pure wheat field , the land where you can run against the wind; no matter how hard it is to find, the endless wheat fields, the land where you can look up to happiness; no matter how hard it is to find, the innocent child, the child who thinks he can look up to happiness just by standing in the wheat fields...Growth , the pain of seeing blood, no one saw it. Unwilling to give up, kept suffering. The breeze that once blew, the grass that once lay gently on, that innocent smile that once had, and that look that once ran, were finally framed as permanent pain.

So, when the story ended quietly and lonely, everything returned to calm. It was quiet like it had never happened before. We have gone through the fleeting years with tears in our eyes, but we cannot withstand loneliness. Life is originally just an endless circle. What you want to find is always hiding behind the search.

Memories retreated into pictures, scattered memories turned into plots, and a huge midsummer enveloped a city. The last years, the lonely years, together with countless us, live like summer flowers and pass away like wind... No one cares about the arc drawn by the fingertips. Only your blurred and gentle eyes are the most shocking thing in the night. a glance.

Reminds me of a sentence: The rain is falling outside the banana curtain, and time is passing by in a hurry. Life is a process, youth is especially short-lived, happiness is like stars in the sky, and longing is like the word "love" embedded in the most beautiful lines of poetry. When the lanterns first came on, the night was dimming, and in the watery moonlight, the petals of lovesickness fell all over the ground. Time is like an expired letter, unable to send a few words of longing.

When this city suddenly grows old one day, I huddle in my humble back, look at the increasingly gloomy sky, and think about the withered and broken time, and then I will die alone.