Leaf fall winter

I looked up at the top of the tree, with faint sunshine. Through the sparse branches of the leaves, there was a thin mist floating in the air. When the wind blew, a few leaves fell down. After a few rounds of feeble beating in the air, they finally landed, make a clear collision sound. There is a cold breath in the air, which is trying to erode my remaining warmth. There is a grove behind the village. I like the feeling of walking in it, stepping on fallen leaves and listening to the sound of broken dead leaves. I once doubted whether I had a tendency to destroy myself, but it was just that kind of feeling. In the sound of blade fragmentation, I once felt the joy from my heart again and again. Yes, it is joy, not melancholy. Until there was only a field with withered leaves and withered brown weeds left in my eyes, there was no such joy in my heart. Maybe I was tired, or I was sober. In short, at that moment, it was extremely sad. As if, I was once a leaf on that tree, falling helplessly after a cold wind, together with my dreams that I once thought proud of myself. Then, they collided and broke in the interlaced branches at the moment of landing. The mottled wall vaguely depicts the handwriting of yesterday, and the immature strokes and pairs of innocent eyes. Among those messy Nicks, there was a delusion that I was once at a loss. But now, where are those playmates who have left traces? Will they return to the place where they left at first when the last leaf of this year fell. The intoxicating melody is floating around my ears again, but why is it so sad now? Looking back on the invisible place, there is the rhythm we used to sing together. In the winter of that year, in the snow field of northern China, I looked at each other silently, staring at the cold ocean, and the song I liked at that time was played on my mobile phone. There was a lot of snow in that year in my memory, and finally it was in a day when snowflakes flew down, one side of each other. Then, the memory becomes long, with the flavor of Durian Candy. Memory is not a happy or sad thing, but recalling those broken chapters that cannot go back is a melancholy dark sorrow. Fortunately, there will be news from each other in our memory. What we miss may be just the past and each other, not the present. Now, we have already been different. The words lightly knocked down by the fingertips are like fragments stripped from the memory. We try our best to restore a perfect past. However, it failed after all. Perhaps, we can choose to draw a perfect outline, but we can’t fill in the color during the period. We can create a perfect past, but what can we do? Now we are not in the end of the world. Whether we restore the past or create a past, it is our own wishful thinking, nothing about the present, not to mention the future, what we have, it is still a moment that has become a reality without change. Then, the words at a loss are some vague words. There must be cause and effect when everything happens. It has its beginning and its end. If spring is the season of vegetation recovery, then we can regard spring as the beginning of a cycle, and then winter is the end of that cycle. While summer and autumn can be counted as the development of reincarnation, prosperity and recession. In this way, winter is a season suitable for making a summary. The End of completing a reincarnation is to drink a bowl of Meng Po soup and forget all this reincarnation. Just like those leaves, they will eventually fall out in winter and then spread out in the next spring.

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