When we have it, we must cherish each other's beauty.

Life is like this, we all have our own pasts, we all have young and frivolous, and we have our own beautiful memories.

Time, just like this, in looking back and looking forward, going round and round; passing years, just like this, going round and round, never returning.

Time is like arrows, time is like water, but I don't know when, my heart seems to be old and numb. He was only 22 years old, but it seemed old and frightening. Life seemed to have no vitality, only the heartbeat replayed the constant melody.

The world seems to be static, why can't I see the brilliant colors and hear the colorful sounds. During the day, the colorful world of Huahua is staged, but at night, it is a one-man dumb show by one person under the night. Sun, wind, rain, ice and snow, stars and moon, all condensed into short days and nights, with eyes open, watching hastily interpreting fairy tales that have been repeated for thousands of years. The clouds fell in the sky, and there was no trace of drifting by; in the days when winter passed and spring came, the wild geese no longer flew north, blooming a season of life in the scorching humidity of the south, unwilling to pursue fatigue again.

I opened one eye ignorantly and looked at this prosperous world in the daytime; the looming splendor is the emptiness of one place every day, the mirage is full of flowers, and the sunset is red and stunning; the scenery has not changed, and the life is old. , The old man of Spring and Autumn, will stand on Sichuan again, how to repeat the words of the deceased.

Open another window, open the eyes of the night, the empty sky, inlaid with countless eyes from the past and present, a tear in the night, reflected by the moon, like an eternal soul, nailed to the eternal sky, watching the past And the future self. The fleeting scene of the passing years interprets the beauty of the night; the life that travels is sad and sad in the music of Erquan. A person, small and insignificant between the heaven and the earth, even if you are floating, you can't pay attention. The cohesion of the sea, the confusion of the mulberry field, is destined to be a land without roots, how can it float like this, in the fleeting years, light and comfortable, traces of dancers' dust. Everything, pass by, even if there is a short stay, don't be greedy, just pass by with a smile and go with the wind. Nothing will stop when we need it most. As the years go by, this world is like a cloud of smoke in the past, not standing forever for everyone, memory is also a scratch in the rolling red dust, attached to a body that will never be complete.

One day, at a certain moment, if you still remember, it is just a vague landscape, a pain that cannot be recalled. Looking forward, looking backward, in the endless universe, how can there be a reference to find the front and back direction. Suddenly looking back, there is no surprise, no anger, the direction becomes an unfixed text, and I just tap on the keyboard. If the years are still there, I will continue to float in the years, closing the eye that I don’t want to see, Break away.

The invisible world, the invisible self.

Once, I was young and frivolous.

In that year, when was Chunhua Qiuyue?

That year, I fell in love with the floor and talked about sorrow for new words.

That year, the streamer was easy to throw people away, red cherries and green plantains.

That year, the dream turned around in my heart.

Turning around the familiar but unfamiliar street corner, drowning in the ensuing crowds, where the stories of yesterday and today are staged in turn, we interpret tomorrow with our youth, and walk through the classrooms full of books and the crowded green field, how much expectations and dreams do we have We are about to set sail from here. However, what awaits us is not only the beautiful dreams, but also the pain of phoenix nirvana.

Once upon a time, when we looked at the brilliant galaxy above our heads, the night and night stars still filled our hearts, but there were no tears of sentimentality for the Cowherd and the Weaver Girl. Because I grew up, I no longer believe in fairy tales.

Like Peter Pan, he can never grow up. But in the torrent of time, we grow up gradually. The dream of the past, I don’t know where I am wandering, and my fragile and sensitive mind is covered with layers of gray by the world, but we call it growth.

But we are still kind. When the dust around us fell on our hearts, we waved our hands to wipe it away, but we had to endure the pain of the soul that could not bear the touch. Young and ignorant, we do not understand the rules of the adult world.

When we wake up from a fairy tale, we pretend to face the world strong, lonely and arrogant. The poverty of our family and the pressure of entering school spur our hearts, no matter what the muddy road ahead is full of thorns.

Young children are simple and ignorant angels, so kind and loving. He will learn to raise his head high, just to keep the tears from falling in his eyes. Despite the injury, he will pretend to be strong and turn around, smile, and tell you: I am fine, really fine.

Life is a gorgeous firework, we don't want to stop wandering in place, even if the fire trees and silver flowers are all over the sky; chasing dreams, following the singing all the way forward.

Unforgettable, that year, the boy in white riding a bicycle, and the cute girl with braids...

Unforgettable, that year, the grasshopper hiding in the grass and the paper kite flying into the sky...

I can't forget those songs that passed away...

Unforgettable, we were young and frivolous...