Listen to the echo prose

I had no choice but to listen to the echo, lingering next to the remaining tree stems, and scattering a piece of lovesickness... Below I have brought you 7 essays on listening to the echo. You are welcome to read them. I hope you like them. Chapter 1: Listening to the echo

Life is always noisy, the world is always noisy, we tell the silence of history, we complain about the silence of the sky... However, we do not know that the voice of history is always there Echoing between heaven and earth, the whisper of heaven is always lingering in our ears, but our ears cannot hear it.

China is a country that has experienced many vicissitudes. Thousands of years of civilization have created the Chinese nation. We once had the most advanced technology, we once had the vastest land, and we once had the most prosperous streets... But history is still there. Cry for us and lament for the raging war ignited on the Chinese land! The Eight-Power Allied Forces invaded Beijing, the Old Summer Palace was destroyed, and Japan invaded China for more than ten years... The beautiful land of China was divided into pieces. History has issued the deepest cry: "Work hard, sons and daughters of China! If you fall behind, you will be beaten, and the tragedy must not be repeated!" Yes, the land of China has suffered a lot. If we don't cheer up, it will be really sad!

People have sighed and said: "If the sky is sentimental, it will also grow old, so the sky is speechless and merciless." When he failed in the imperial examination, the examinee pointed to the sky and cursed: "The sky has no eyes!" Then he went straight to hell. Love is hard to gather, so he shouted to the sky: "The sky is merciless!" Then he turned into two butterflies. When his ambition was not fulfilled, he couldn't help but look up to the sky and sigh: "It's really God's fault that God wants to kill me!" So he sacrificed his life for righteousness. Listen quietly, the sky is complaining: "It is not my fault, it is actually the fault of you ordinary people! The reason why the candidates failed the exam is because they studied too little and were born at the wrong time. It is difficult to gather love, because they have feudal ideas and are ignorant. Their ambitions have not been fulfilled. , I blame him for not having great talents and strategies, and his skills are not as good as others, how can I blame them all on me? "Yes, how can I blame everyone for the ups and downs in life? A gentleman seeks for himself, while a villain seeks for others!

In fact, everything in the world has its own language. It is not that we are deaf, but that we have become accustomed to the noise of the world and find it difficult to listen quietly. In fact, when we really calm down, we will hear another echo in our ears. Chapter 2: Listening to the Echoes

I have always liked this song: "I miss the past, always looking at things simply, not asking, not afraid, never tired..." Just listening to it makes me think back unconsciously. Once upon a time - that time that seems to never leave but is no longer with me.

I don’t dare to recall the past, I’m afraid.

I'm afraid that those wind chime-like laughter will make me burst into tears; I'm afraid that those pebbles hidden in the candy box will make me stay where I am, not wanting to go any further. The almost forgotten good time of mine is like the cup of green tea in front of me. It looks to have the freshest color and smells the most refreshing fragrance. However, after taking a sip, I taste an indescribable bitterness that penetrates into my body. Go to your heart.

However, I can’t control myself.

I miss the clear river in front of my door. Every year on the night of July 30th, a whole street of people celebrates the birthday of Father Land. And that naughty hungry man has more than once put incense sticks on the foam to form a five-pointed star shape, gently placed them on the water, and let them float with the gentle sound of water to the fantasy world full of colorful stones and colorful flowers. place. And that big river only remains in the past. Like my past, it can never go back to its past. I can only mourn it with a feeling called "melancholy".

I miss the lonely basketball court behind the wall of my house. Every autumn - every autumn when the cool breeze blows and the fallen leaves are flying, there is always a naughty child who clumsily climbs up a short osmanthus tree, breaks off a few branches covered with osmanthus flowers, and then jumps down , ran home happily as if he had found a treasure.

You can always see this scene every evening when it is not raining: a little girl with braids holding an old basketball in her fleshy hands. She threw it upwards with both hands, and it brushed the rusty and crumbling basket frame, hit the concrete floor hard, bounced up again, and fell down. Snap, snap, snap...slowly stop. The piece of osmanthus scattered on the ground, the heavy cart, and the little girl who was concentrating on blowing dandelion tips slowly disappeared from my sight, and stayed in the corner of my memory together with the cowhide basketball.

I used to be obsessed with taking pictures and recording—perhaps I still am now—just to leave some fragments in my memory that I can savor in my spare time.

But it’s just limited to memories, isn’t it? People always have to move forward, no matter how reluctant they are to let go of the things in front of them, in the end they still have to say goodbye to them - maybe we can see them again, maybe we will never see them again.

The so-called helplessness.

So, let’s go, take the memory with you, but when your heart calms down, please don’t forget to listen to the echo. Chapter 3: Listening to the echo

Wandering in the gentle and graceful streets of Jiangnan Town, the gray sky is filled with fine raindrops, falling on the moist soil, and the river is filled with waves. In a circle of endless ripples, the awning boat floats quietly, filled with the wet wishes of people in the south of the Yangtze River. By chance, he walked into an alley, which was long and far away. He suddenly thought of Dai Wangshu's "Rain Alley" and wondered whether he would meet a lilac-like woman in such a rainy alley. Suddenly I remembered that there were alleys like this in my hometown.

The alleys in my hometown are not as light and lively as the Jiangnan alleys, but more calm and solemn. They are not as twists and turns as the Jiangnan alleys, but straight and formal, just like the northerners. Temperament, bold and uninhibited. It’s just that they are equally long, where do they lead? Is it the atrium of a wanderer?

My first feelings about the world sprouted in the alleys of my hometown. When I was four or five years old, I would take a piece of chalk and scribble on the walls on both sides of the alley, drawing the world in a child's eyes. The adults smiled and shook their heads, but I enjoyed it, pursuing the world hidden in the light and shadow.

My understanding of life is also due to the alleys of my hometown. On a clear summer evening, I would move a small horse and sit quietly in the alley, smelling the strong ancient atmosphere emanating from the alley, and watching the smoke from the kitchen slowly blending into the blue sky, more like a light ink painting. Occasionally, I would walk down the alley, gently touching the floor tiles that have been polished smooth by time with my feet, and quietly touching the walls that have been weathered by time with my hands. At that moment, my heart was filled with ancient fantasies. Life becomes clear at the end of the alley.

An alley also made me realize the beauty of humanity. On a fresh morning, I ran to open the courtyard door. I happened to meet Uncle Zhang from the opposite door and came to open the door. They looked at each other and smiled, saying good morning to each other. The day would be very warm. During the holidays, every family hung up a pair of bright red flowers. The lanterns were dazzlingly red, reflecting the quaint alley. At this time, you give me a pear, and I give you some plums, and everyone laughs and chats. At this time, the sweet laughter echoes over the alley, and it refuses to disperse for a long time.

In the alley of my hometown, you are the origin of my character, and you are my eternal treasure! Hometown, even though I have traveled through thousands of rivers and mountains in my life, I will never leave your arms. I am in your sight, and I am in your voyage!

Only then did I understand the feeling of a wanderer missing his hometown. "Where is the hometown gate at dusk? The smoke on the river makes people sad", "I don't know where to blow the reed pipe, and all the people are looking at their hometown overnight." My hometown will always be the support and destination of my soul. Birds miss the old forest, fish miss the old abyss, horses follow the north wind, foxes must head to the top of the hill when they die, trees are thousands of feet high, and fallen leaves return to their roots. The farther we are from our hometown, the deeper we miss our hometown. This longing stings our heart, and the longer it lasts, the harder it is to heal.

After being away from my hometown for a long time, the memory of my hometown will become blurred. On a bright day, think about your hometown, where you have your tears and laughter, and where you have your roots.

Just like me now, listening quietly to the echo in the alley... Chapter 4: Listening to the echo

In the empty night, only loneliness remains. The autumn wind picked up again, gently lifted the window screen, and then slowly lowered it. In autumn, people become sentimental. Sorrow is endless, just like the moon. No matter how you look at it, you cannot clearly see its boundaries.

In the haze, I seemed to hear a song. I was startled, approached the window, and finally confirmed the name of the song. I loved this song a few years ago. Today, several years later, how can it be sung again after all the storms? My heart trembled suddenly, and my thoughts drifted back to the past with the autumn wind.

Home is always warm. Family is always the deepest warmth in my heart. My favorite food is the dumplings made by my grandma; my favorite thing to wear is the sweater knitted by my mother; my favorite song is the "life song" randomly composed by my father; what makes me happiest is eating with my family. Late at night, a cup of hot tea brought by my mother warmed the whole house. Every time I go home, my grandma greets me with greetings, and I don’t feel cold anymore. The jokes at the dinner table seemed to make the air cheerful.

However, despite this, I left home. Maybe he was young and frivolous, and didn't know the ways of the world. Life has made me deeply depressed several times. Facing a new day, we must straighten our spine again. Every time at that time, hearing the word "go home" is like a fire in winter, warming the whole heart.

When I woke up in the morning, I saw the sunshine quietly coming in from the window around me. It was warm and my heart instantly became brighter. This is the sunshine of your home! You see it spreads on my quilt calmly. I stretched out my hand and grasped the sunshine falling in my hand, and life became beautiful.

Friends, I know I can’t live without them. A reminder when you are proud, a comfort when you are sad, encouragement when you are frustrated, and their understanding and tolerance when you are angry. I know that I am lucky, as if I enjoy the blessing of God and give me their love.

I just want to confide my unhappiness to them. "I don't want you to be depressed." My friend said. So, I tried to adjust my emotions and live happily as my friends hoped.

The long-lost melody brings me back to this boundless night, but I know that the night will no longer be lonely. Family, friends, they are my treasures, the only wealth I enjoy. There was a touch of warmth in the air, and the sadness was also diluted. The moon no longer looks deserted, but has that kind of gentle beauty. Listening to the echo, in the echo, I found myself. Chapter 5: Listening to the echo

The rustling autumn wind, the scattered autumn leaves, and I suddenly remembered the persimmon tree that grew up with me by the window lattice.

I think of my grandmother again: "Autumn is here, and it’s time to eat persimmons again." There was a warm undercurrent in my heart. Today, I looked at the persimmon tree with its remaining roots. I had no choice but to make a cup of fragrant tea and pick up some morning flowers in the long autumn in the South.

The lost innocence of the past has long been annihilated by the deep longing. In the past sixteen years, all I can taste is a cup of tea. The persimmon tree was cut down, leaving only the stump, and the old grandmother was gone. A ray of thought, very beautiful, but elusive. Everything disappeared in the rolling river of history and was annihilated in the weak water. I can only piece together the echo with words somewhere deep in my mind.

When the persimmon trees are still lush, looking up at the blue sky through the gaps between the leaves is a unique sight. The old grandmother always clings to her hands and leans against the thick persimmon tree, her disheveled gray hair letting the wind blow. At this time, I will put my head on the old grandmother's lap and ask her to tell me stories. The childish and romantic childhood disappeared in the deepness of the old man and the unbridledness of the child. My old grandmother loved to tell stories about the Anti-Japanese War. I only vaguely remember: when the Japanese came, she would climb up the tree, with the thick leaves covering her body. When there were few of them, she would hit their heads with a persimmon. Persimmon Dropping to the ground, he grinned. I don’t know if it’s true or not, but I still don’t deny that the old grandmother has a deep affection for the persimmon tree. Beautiful days, even if they are ordinary, are so unforgettable and unforgettable.

When I grow up, my grandmother’s face is already covered with bark-like lines, her original teeth are broken into pieces, and she can no longer bite a persimmon! So I took advantage of the winter to dry all the persimmons into persimmon cakes. She will sip it in small sips, just like I am sipping fragrant tea now. I understand that he is "sorrowing the last moment of his life." She no longer folded her hands and leaned against the persimmon tree, but moved a small chair and basked in the warm sun. She knew that she could not grow up hand in hand with the persimmon tree. She always wanted me to come to her little house and listen to him tell stories, but I have a mature heart and those old stories can't coax me anymore.

Where are you at this moment, and where is the tree at this moment? We are still together, watching the clouds roll and relax in that leisurely afternoon...

Like the reincarnation of flower-like forms, interpreting a beautiful and prosperous story. Listening to the echo, scenes that moved me and inspired me were beautifully displayed in front of me. Autumn is like a cup of fine wine, dyeing my tea and swirling my thoughts. The passing time at the end of the year has been deeply involved in the dust of everything before I have time to pick it up.

The old grandmother and the persimmon tree were originally such a harmonious and beautiful attachment, but now, the shallow sentimentality has shattered the helplessness and memories everywhere. Looking back Yanran, the world of mortals has been broken again. I can't bear those memories, so I can only listen to the echoes, lingering next to the remaining tree stems, and scatter a piece of lovesickness... Chapter 6: Listening to the echoes

The sky is as transparent as water, and the rain is gentle. The ground fluttered on his face. I sat in front of the window and meditated.

Grandma went to that street again as usual today, taking the glass bottle with her as usual. She was holding it as if she was holding a piece of jewelry worth thousands of gold, walking along the tall buildings on the street, stopping quietly step by step. The ground moved with small steps. She walked once and again, day after day, year after year, even in rainy and snowy days.

Since I was a child, I have known that my grandma has such "required courses", but I have never asked her why. I am just curious: What is the meaning of doing the same things she does every day? And that strange glass bottle. My mother said it was my grandfather's relic. I took a closer look and found that it was just an ordinary bottle. No matter how expensive it was, it only cost 10 yuan, but my grandmother regarded it as a rare treasure. The strangest thing is that there is nothing in the bottle, it is empty.

I guess: What’s so strange about an empty bottle? If you want to buy it, you can buy a lot of it. Why is that the only treasure? Maybe grandpa put water in it to raise flowers, so after the flowers faded, the bottle still had memory value; maybe he had raised tadpoles, or maybe he had packed the 100 pieces of paper that grandpa gave to grandma that he folded with his own hands. Crane, so grandma kept it full of longing and wandered the old streets with it every day, so where did the thousand paper cranes fly now.

Finally, I decided to solve this mystery that has existed for nearly 20 years.

I took back my thoughts, walked through the rain curtain, came to my grandma’s house, and asked her my questions. Her eyelashes trembled slightly, and she smiled and promised to tell me the answer.

She was hunched over, I supported her, and we took the bottle to the old street together. She walked slowly along the wall, holding the bottle tightly with one hand and gently stroking the wall with the other: "You must think this bottle is empty! Everyone thinks so, but except me. It contains the most important things." The kind thing, no, it's a treasure, it's what your grandpa said to me before he died. "What he said?" I was shocked.

"Yes, there was no tape recorder at that time, so he asked the doctor to remove the bottle from which he hung the water, pour out the potion inside, and then asked me to hold it. He pointed at the mouth of the bottle and used his last empty voice The gossamer-like voice said intermittently: "Honey, live well, I will wait for you in heaven with my eternal love for you. "As she spoke, grandma's eyes filled with tears. She pressed the bottle tightly to her ears, and a beautiful smile appeared on her wrinkled face: "I heard him talking to me again, and the echoes came over again and again. Listen! "I took the bottle and listened with my ears, but I heard nothing. Oh, you should listen with your heart.

After people leave, only invisible things are left, perhaps only through memories and emotions. These invisible chains are connected together. After my grandmother moved away from the old street, the old house was gone, but the street was still an old street full of memories. Walking on the old street with the "echo bottle" was her happiest moment. Moment.

"Old houses can become ruins; the past can become faded memories; but love will continue silently in our hearts. "Late at night, I wrote these words in my diary. The bottle contains the most beautiful sound. It was my grandpa who rolled his rock-hard heart into the shape of a leaf and played it gently for grandma! Chapter 7: Listening to the echo

In the crowded city, in the bustling streets, the houses standing under the East Baihua Lane; they should have been so familiar, they should have been so kind, they were the most beautiful things in my childhood. It’s a happy place, but I can’t find any trace of where I once lived. There are no square courtyards, no dilapidated telephone poles, and even the mulberry trees have quietly disappeared.

I doubt whether this really existed in the past. There is an alley with my home in it. In the courtyard, my grandma and I sit under the mulberry tree and count the stars in the sky. Now everything is gone. Grandma has already walked out of this alley to go deeper and further. < /p>

Recalling that when I first moved into my new home, I was as happy as a bird, flying around in the yard. Maybe in old memories, new home is a beautiful word. Having a new home. Everything is lost in the past. There is a good saying: Only when it is lost can you learn to cherish it. Yes, when you were a child, you wanted to grow up quickly. Now that you have lost your childhood, you understand how precious it is.

Later, I moved into a new home. Instead of having a cute little neighbor, I had a man who collected parking fees all day long and made noises downstairs. There were not as many mulberry trees as I remembered downstairs. There are many small saplings. I really sympathize with these countless saplings. There is not enough land to stretch their bodies. Every late spring, aunts will come here to cut off the newly grown saplings.

The new home is actually a very scary place. There are no stars for company, only cars shouting, no small animals playing freely, only puppies being restrained by their owners, walking slowly downstairs, and no neighbors on the street. The only sound of tea chatting and laughing was a group of cars lying on four wheels, their dark eyes curling up and their beeps honking incessantly.

A few days ago, I went shopping in the supermarket and walked through East Baihua Alley. The people in the alley were talking and laughing as if they were old acquaintances. Yes, ten years have passed, and the "newcomers" who dominate here are all called old neighbors, and they have no idea that I once lived here. The long and short ten years have turned everything in the past into dust, swept into another planet by a strong wind.

Suddenly, a group of children were playing hide and seek in the alley. The sound of laughter seemed to have been heard yesterday, so familiar yet strange. At that time, he and I and other partners played hide-and-seek games in our secret base, sometimes playing badminton in the alley, sometimes playing cards under the mulberry tree, but now all of this is gone. I once went to see that secret base, and except for the few bricks that were about to be destroyed, everything else remained the same. This is the only comfort I have.

Sometimes I often wonder if everything in my past is just a dream. Maybe there is no past at all, and in the future, there is only the present. Just like shouting in the valley, all the echoes are false and empty. But when I listened to the echo quietly, I found that without my shouting, there would be no echo worth savoring.