On the composition of "traces of the past"

Since I chose the distance, I only care about hardships. Wang Guozhen said. Yes, in order to dream, sometimes we have to choose to stay away from home, leaving traces of dreams all the way.

My brother went to Holland in the summer vacation and flew halfway around the world to study with his dream. As his only brother, I saw him off at the airport. At the airport, my heart was immersed in a kind of inexplicable sadness. During that time, I thought a lot and recalled my brother's pursuit of dreams. There are always many transparent glass doors in the waiting hall, which makes this space look infinite. The meaning of thick is diluted to a breathable concentration, and maybe it will taste sweet if it is contained on the tip of the tongue. Suddenly found that this is actually a very beautiful place. The take-off and landing of every plane will cause a large group of people to pass through the waiting hall, and the footsteps of noisy businessmen suddenly pass on the floor reflecting bright light. They walked at the pace of daily life and easily followed the melodious melody of waltz. They just fell from the sky, or are about to take off, which will be their precious life experience. Because they waved their youth and wrote traces of struggle.

It is far from the airport. Turn around and have a look. The curved roof with smooth and elegant lines in the waiting hall flutters like a light wing. My brother's flight has disappeared in the distant sky, and only a trace of sadness or bitter dream has crossed the blue sky like an endless sea. Looking up at the traces in such a beautiful sky, people are convinced that there is no doubt about the existence of dreams.

On the night I left my brother, I dreamed of traces that once appeared in my life. In the pursuit of life dreams, I found myself with many new insights.

The fluorescence of childhood is still the same, and the frog is still the same. It seems that I really grew up overnight. Standing at the crossroads of life, I am at a loss. The wall engraved with height marks has not collapsed so far, and the growth of primitive people is as clear as a tree. There are a series of traces. On the night when the cold wind blows, a person lies quietly, listening to the old songs from the midnight radio waves, and the cold rain outside the window hits the fallen leaves drop by drop. Time has changed many things, and it has also changed you and me.

When you are dreaming, the traces along the way may record too much bitterness.

I often go back to my hometown in my sleep, the small mountain village lying in the sun, where rivers flow quietly. Who can tell me, in that distant afternoon, what traces did the paper plane have and where did it fly?