pulse

I don't know when I found that clocks no longer have so much time meaning to me.

I will wake up on time in the morning, my work will come as promised, and my bank's reminder message will be delivered every minute. Even by taxi, I will wake up from my coma one minute before I arrive at my destination.

If it weren't for the occasional injury that could bring some pain, I even thought I was a programmed machine.

However, there are still some things that can make me aware of the existence of time, such as the afterglow of sunset in the last half hour of evening, such as mountains and streams in the late autumn drizzle, such as high-rise buildings and streets with blurred lights in the chaotic snow in winter.

It's an indescribable emotion. The afterglow of the setting sun falling on the room through the window divides the room into two worlds, golden and dark, but at the same time, it conjures up a colorful dreamland of red, orange, yellow and purple in the sky. Time is distorted and dancing like an elegant and beautiful curly-haired beauty in a red evening dress, which attracts me deeply and makes me afraid.

So I think I mostly don't like the sunset, and I prefer the drizzle in late autumn to the sinking of the sunset. Find an afternoon, find a valley town, find a corner tower, and quietly stare at the distant mountains in a drizzle. The world is black and white, just like a splash-ink landscape painting, and the rain and fog drifting with the wind are like splashes of ink, flowing freely between the vacant heaven and earth. Where you pass, the outline of mountains and the meandering of streams flow out, and finally it comes to an illusion. Only the scattered raindrops under the eaves beat the sound of puddles, as if time is whispering. If you listen carefully, you can hear those two words: the sky.

The rain in late autumn is lonely, and those who indulge too much are mostly depressed. But the world will not be more gentle to you because of your depression, and sometimes even more cold to you, just like this cold winter.

If the snow in the mountains of Yuan Ye is holy and flawless, the snow in that city is somewhat crazy in love. Towering buildings, row upon row of billboards, neat and monotonous street lamps, endless vehicles on criss-crossing roads, each flashing with various dazzling lights, accompanied by noisy music and horns, reflect the fallen snowflakes strangely, and fill the sky and streets of the city with snowflakes rolling in the wind, depriving them of every warmth without mercy. All the lights were frozen into a dazzling dome, which sealed the whole city instantly. Although the snow is still dancing wildly, the world seems to be still forever.

With only a trace of consciousness left, I can still feel my faint heartbeat pulse in the bitter chill, and I realize that time is still passing, without sorrow or joy. Just like the setting sun always sets, the autumn rain always stops, the spring and autumn come back and forth, and the sun and the moon go back and forth. These are eternal and have no end. They never belong to someone, and they never expect to please anyone. Only those who look at them and feel them will be romantic, listen to their own breath, touch their own heartbeat and count their own pulse. Only these are his own evidence of the time he has experienced.