Traces of wind

Keywords: traces of classic prose

Classification of Prose: Classical Prose

Composition source:/three articles

The wind blows across my cheeks, and it hurts a little. I understand that it's the end of the year again, and it seems like another year in a trance. Come to think of it, in fact, I spent most of my time trying to survive, busy mechanically, and seemed to leave nothing behind. It's a little strange, the geese leave a sound, and the wind leaves a mark. Even if time is like the wind, the wind will leave traces.

Fortunately, I have always loved literature, and I like to discredit my own words on the Internet. I took stock of the words in 2007 and finally slowly picked up the traces of the wind.

I just came back from a trip to Taibai Lake, and as far as the eye can see, white waves are rolling. Before the cold wind was exhausted, I wandered on the bare river beach in the warm sunshine, watching the cold wind crumple the river water held by Yingying, listening to the wind rustling the bleak hay, feeling the gentleness of the wind, quietly putting away the sweat on the farmers' foreheads in the forest on the river beach, and wandering by the river with bride-like skin. Clean, warm, mature and fragrant.

On the Dragon King Mountain in Chun Lv, the wind accompanied me in search of spring. The warm spring breeze gently blows me, making me feel the tenderness at that moment. The soft spring rain fell on my head, making me feel the lingering at that moment. The green wicker blows on my face, which makes me regain the childlike interest of turning wicker into a flute when I was a child. On the sandy beach, I witnessed the edge of the kite floating in the fragrance of rape flowers from the bare poplar forest; In the happy class reunion, we took care of each other in the hot spring pool, all of which were peach blossoms with red lips and white teeth, as if the distant youth had returned to us; Still sobbing in the night wind, I remembered my mother who had lived in heaven for fifteen years, and my throat choked: Mother, are you okay there? Seeing my father smiling at me by the river where I don't return; It is also under the drizzle of flying cherry blossoms, accompanied by sad falling flowers, listening to a woman in red telling the story of her cherry blossoms being robbed, recalling the loneliness of Valentine's Day. ...

I haven't woken up from my sadness and loneliness, and I haven't had time to let spring wash away my mixed feelings, but in a hurry, I wear less and less clothes and the weather is getting stuffy. I suddenly realized that summer is coming? Spring goes and spring comes, silently and without a trace. So, I wandered among the petals of the remnant English, carefully selected a late-blooming bud, gently picked it, and carefully inserted it in a beautiful vase ... I am trying to keep the spring, and I am also trying to quit the addiction of being a defense lawyer. I have left my eternal Hubei literary world, my eternal Huanggang literary world, and my eternal ... calling to miss the days when I walked together in Huanggang literary world and other local literary circles, but I know that we are still moving forward side by side. ...

I haven't recalled Tianhe from my passion. Inadvertently, a familiar fragrance drifted lightly, full of fragrance without losing elegance, which intoxicated you, left you with endless aftertaste, and also made you feel a lot more: Oh, it was another year of osmanthus fragrance unconsciously. Shuttling back and forth between work and family in a hurry all day, just like a fish swimming around all day, it is dark at both ends of work, so the days gradually entered the autumn of life with the chilling and sad cries, almost forgetting the meaning of her endless life and colorful and diverse life, so after experiencing the spiritual journey of Xiangshan, Beijing, I suddenly understood that spring is warm, autumn is quiet, and spring, summer, autumn and winter are still playing the same role. Life is like a trip, what you care about is not the scenery along the way, but the mood when you look at the scenery.

So counting, it turns out that every wind in the sky has my wandering thoughts. Every wind in the sky has left a trace in my world.

Time really passes me like a breeze. I close my eyes and savor the warmth, fragrance and slight pain of the wind. They don't seem to know when and where it started. They are invisible, willful and seemingly traceless, but we can build a fence with words, leaving the warmth, fragrance and beauty of the wind and leaving traces of the wind.

The wind is still blowing year after year, and I think I will continue to write words. Perhaps only words can keep my old feelings and thoughts, and those old nostalgia, like endless wind, leave traces on the beach for people to touch and taste. I know that the trace of the wind is a series of footprints I have walked all the way, and that footprint is the trace of my arduous journey to the other side of Qian Shan. Maybe one day, I can really watch the flowers bloom and fall in the world with a smile, but looking at the traces of my wind and releasing countless memories about the wind, the string in my heart will still be gently plucked and played the piano music of the past. These traces should be as sweet as alcohol and as fragrant as flowers.

The wind is still blowing, the wind is still blowing, the wind is still turning, the water is still wrinkling, the clouds are still floating, the trees are still green, and the flowers are still falling ... Perhaps, these traces will become the traces of my walking in this world one day?

The past is like the wind, but there are traces.

In my words, and in my heart. like