At 4:30 today, I had the idea of writing, and I remember that the last time I wrote at this time was half a year ago. Yawning, stretching, looking at the darkness of the night, writing moving essays. Not to move others, but to move yourself.
Why write. The answer is different for everyone. In order to become a self-leading star; In order to improve yourself; add color to the monotonous life; In order to know yourself; In order to open the boundaries of the field of view; In order to write bad articles; Find an outlet for bad moods. What am I for? I'm thinking, for writing. Like the meaning of life, what is it? Life has no meaning, the meaning you give is meaning.
These days, I always like to read poetry books, Walter. Whitman's Leaves of Grass; Simboska's The Mystery of the Silence of All Things. Some can't read it, but they like the rhythm in it.
One person does not cancel out the other.
Just as the vision of one eye does not cancel out the vision of the other, or one life does not cancel out the other.
Everything in the world is suitable, and everything in the world is suitable for everyone and for you.
The same thing doesn't happen twice.
Therefore, it is a pity.
We were born without rehearsal, and we will not have the opportunity to rehearse death.
You exist--- so you have to disappear, you disappear --- you become beautiful.
We smiled and hugged.
After reading the author's artistic conception, I also fell into contemplation, which lies in touching, touching the relationship between people, and the interaction between people and the world. As Wittgenstein said: the borders of my language are the borders of my world.
At this moment, I understood that a rich language has a rich world. It will convey your love, your beauty, your goodness, your joy, your sorrow. Is it touching the scene, or touching the scene. I can't tell, and I don't need to. They became one.
Only by understanding who I am will I understand him and you. Open a window with words, whether it's night or clouds. will lead you to the light. I keep writing, and I don't get lost anymore.
Re-reading past articles, it feels like garbage, a bunch of nonsense. Garbage or nonsense. Emotions flow with words. Sorrow writes sorrow until sorrow turns into nectar; Joy is written about joy until more joy continues.
This is the meaning of writing, the existence of writing. It wasn't me when I wrote it, so I'm in **? When it is done in one go, it is like the magnificent waves of the ocean; It's like the passion of youth. The charm of language comes to life at this moment. Write my heart with my hands. My heart still beats.
There are times when you can't write, right now. Looking at nothingness, as if looking again, it is not looking again. Thinking is flowing, looking for a connection between me and the world.
I'm going to write warm words,
In this cold winter,
Melt away all the cold wind, snow and ice.
The cold wind is beautiful,
Piercing pain,
will change;
Ice and snow are moving
It turns into nectar to nourish the heart
Beauty and ugliness
Good and evil
Happiness and sorrow
Be in the mood for the 2024 travel guideIf the mind changes with the environment, it is not at ease
If the mind can change, it will be at ease everywhere
One is influenced by the outside
An impact on the outside
I would like to be the rain of spring
Let the seeds of hope sprout
I would like to be the ice of summer
Feel a hint of shade in the heat
I would like to be the wind of autumn
Touching the land of abundant harvest
I would like to be the warm sun of winter
Don't feel lonely in the cold
I am the wind and the rain, the darkness and the light
Open the world with words
Fill your heart with the world