Going to see the sea alone prose

I always thought that going to the sea alone was only for girls. A backpack, a pair of soft-soled lightweight sneakers, and flowing straight hair were a willful and romantic trip. The sea breeze, the gentle waves, the setting sun, the rising gulls, facing the sea, stretching out your hands, are your own spring flowers.

I once went to see the sea alone. It was made of silk, with piping on the waist, and the color of the lake. There were even large lotus flowers, hollowed-out thin flowers and small ridges, and suede ink-dyed half-high heels. That’s it. I have been walking aimlessly along the promenade, alone in the sea and alone.

There are small purple flowers along the way, blooming thinly at the feet, as dense as fog and winding like a belt. The sky is high and the clouds are white, everything is quiet, except for the occasional racing driver passing by. In fact, there is nothing on the sea, just endless loneliness and loneliness, but I need such broadness, which can reflect my humbleness and narrowness, just like two sides of a mirror. When I look at the sea, I am also looking at myself.

I am a person who likes to get lost. In a noisy big city, I often can’t tell the difference between east, west and north. In my eyes, all the streets and high-rise buildings are almost the same, and there is not much difference between Kunming and Urumqi, which are thousands of miles apart. When I went there, an old couple from Northeast China said to me: "Girl, come with us, we are Shenzhen Tong." I couldn't help but laugh. There are still people in this world who call me girl. In their eyes, maybe I am still Not too old. Along the way, they talked about their daughters, sons-in-law, grandchildren, and even their houses and incomes. These detailed stories were painted golden by the warm afternoon sun, and I became the warmest listener. They said that they would come to see the sea every Sunday. They would buy food and cook on weekdays and pick up and drop off their granddaughter. Perhaps this is the most typical Chinese family, with their children migrating and wandering, reproducing and giving. In front of a green hillside, there was a flock of five-colored birds flying overhead. They said they would reach the beautiful Shenzhen Bay over the top.

The seawater silently overflowed in front of me, drowning everything. I hope that one day it can overflow my head, and I curl up in its wave center and sleep with the halo of the sun and moon on my pillow. The sea water holds up the soft hair, each one floating like a mermaid, and the colorful corals kiss my ankles. I can think about nothing, do nothing, and just sleep quietly. The sound of Buddha in the deep sea, there is a child carrying water to purify the ground, the white lotus in the heart is opening one after another, time is like hot satin, I walked barefoot, the grid corridor is full of dusty sound, that faint light is the soul Language always leads me forward.

Under a pavilion, I ordered a cup of Coca-Cola. I will never drink this coffee-colored carbonated drink several times in my life. But the two little boys sitting opposite me raised a cup and it was contagious. Got me. The children's mother told me that their income was not high. They rented a house and took in their parents-in-law to take care of their children. They saved money and built a building in the countryside of their hometown. I listened with a smile, the wind slowly passed through the tall coconut trees, the sea water was like a mirror, everything was beautiful. I love these simple people as much as I love the morning dew, clean and transparent.

Maybe one day, I will also wear the simplest clothes, which are spacious and comfortable; I will use an old dictionary with frayed edges, and flip through two pages casually, and there will be something about milk and cotton. Smell; maybe I will take off all my jewelry and be as clean as a newborn baby, with clear eyes like water, and I can see my own shadow. I use a magnifying glass to observe tiny insects and calyxes, to feel the sweetness and aura of a plant, and to touch the pain and joy of growing life. I surrender myself to heaven and earth, letting my breath warm the hillside, letting my pulse surge into clear waves, and letting the flower petals rub into my bones. I would wear old-fashioned velvet shoes and walk towards the sunflowers and the areola of the sun until I melted into the soft golden waves.

Real life is an adventure, just like the sea. I can’t remember how much love and warmth have surrounded me. Along the way, I met too many people walking towards me holding the sun in their hands. They brought me seeds, rain, dew and sunshine, making my flower house warm and full of spring. I know that without them, my writing cannot survive. I like to count these familiar heads, just like the fragrance of wheat ears mixed with the color of the sun, cordial and beautiful. I even know the way their minds work and their nerve endings. I clearly remember their first message. The nectar of those souls was enough to cover up the words of my embroidery needle, making it a chapter of its own. Looking at the hundreds of tall buildings, I was unable to reply, but I was still moved. Although I can only enjoy a few branches, the thousands of miles of red apricot clouds are enough to make me fall.

Last winter, I officially entered the forum, and from then on, I began to despise myself. Do my words have to be published in print media, must be published with an official seal, and even participate in competitions and win awards? Do they have to be picked out like side dishes in the market, do they have to be recognized and so-called success? I can't do what Zhang Chonghe did, writing like "spitting everywhere". Although the words are indecent, they are chic. Why should a galsang flower in the prairie be gilded? This is my dilemma. I am afraid that one day my simple words will be followed by a bunch of complicated annotations. I hate my hypocrisy, but my feet can't help but walking.

But fortunately, the flower seeds I randomly left behind evoked a spring with soft willows and swallows. Many friends’ comments moved me and even made me cry. I don’t like to use the words editor or teacher. All living beings gather and disperse due to fate. They know my obsession with words, my clarity and simplicity, my elegance and calmness, my kindness and affection, my milky feelings and the pain of growing up. They were strangers to me, but the clear water flowed through the leaves, the raindrops hit the corrugations, and during the humid season of the plum rain, they brought me a cup of tea to warm my hands as I sat by the window.

They are like the sea water in front of you, every drop is so translucent. When they gather together, they are filled with warmth that covers the sky and coolness that covers the ground.

I know that behind me is the sea, and looking back is the boundless vastness. There are as many broad and clear minds as there are different people. I also know that the sun and moon rise from its embrace every day, broad and generous, warm and lovely.

I would like to dedicate this document to those who have warmed and cared about me!