Time is a mandala

Down, with flower, heart seamless. If you think it over carefully, if you write in this state, you will become a Buddha. Walk through every fate cycle of floating life in a posture that knows everything, and simply see the flowers bloom and fall in front of the court, and the clouds are rolling and relaxing outside the sky. — Text: just sitting outside the years, watching others crying or smiling happily in their own stories, watching those mottled fragments slide across the faces of all living beings, but I was unmoved like a holy monk. For many people who love writing, maybe writing is a beautiful and sentimental epiphany. Maybe because of loneliness, the fingers give birth to a cool charm, or because the heart is filled with crazy thoughts, it has become a deep and shallow poem on the letter. Just like the colorful petals, the autumn leaves are far away from the branches, life is in the moment of curtain call, and all kinds of tastes float on the heart between the eyebrows, turning into a piece of paper to present in front of us. Stumbling all the way, the ups and downs of the mood, in the noisy floating world, turned into a serenity in song lyrics. I used to be so tired of consuming the precious fleeting time that I thought in some kind of monotony, just like watching some dreams alienate into souls buried in deep valleys in a trivial drift. It was hard to remember after years. When I suddenly felt shocked, I found that white hair began to grow in the blue silk. Days drop like water in the repeated journey, and when you stare at it again, there is no trace. Only a few faint rays of light flickered deep in the eyes. It seems to tell me how to waste the most beautiful streamer. For me, writing has become a gesture of solidifying memory and paying tribute to myself after years. When all the disturbing thoughts turn into characters one by one under the fingertips, the heart is a kind of clear emptiness. The heart which is like glaze will bloom into a clear Lotus in the clear water, and it will become clear and beautiful in the dim night. She is the only Mandala in my heart, on the other side of my dream. Even if it is out of reach, I will still knock down a line of low songs about sadness or joy with my fingertips in the sadness of the lamp flower. Although, I am not a woman who loves writing, it is just accidental. Just like choosing a beautiful gorgeous dress for myself occasionally, I like to wrap my fragile soul with graceful and gorgeous coat. I am afraid of seeing those dark corners, I am afraid of those scenes that make my heart feel bitter and painful. After all, I can’t stand myself as a stone sculpture outside the world of mortals. I still need the smell of fireworks and the warm atmosphere to bake my coolness and decadence. I was afraid that I would become a dead wood under the burning sun, and the lonely branches would sway in the wind. Thinking about this long time and short life, how can I peel off the annual rings attached to my body layer by layer to see my hidden innocence. Therefore, in the words, I learned how to string those scattered fragments into complete memories. I remembered my dream, wandering in different folk customs like San Mao, and wrote down all kinds of beautiful chances on the paper. With a person who can hold a warm hand, I will travel all over the mountains and rivers. Without a house, love is enough. There is no deposit, just have a pair of hands holding each other. In such a life, even if you are wandering from place to place, there is love spreading into a vivid and simple scenery, which is the deepest and most satisfying happiness for me. However, such a dream will eventually be left out of the soul. It is like a dark wound printed in the abyss that cannot be touched. Appreciating San Mao’s bravery, such a romantic woman, no one can restrain her unrestrained thinking. She searched for the dream in her heart in the wandering, and wrote all the joys and sorrows she had experienced in her life in the wandering. Even if you spend your whole life, you will have no regrets. When her words burst into a beautiful flower in my heart, I knew what attitude her soul was to bid farewell to the rolling red dust. Those words floating in the water, in fact, are just a kind of warmth in imagination. Afraid of the extreme desolation in Eileen Chang’s words, her dream gave birth to vicissitudes of flowers under her fingertips, which opened on the readers’ heart with a desperate poignant beauty. I am afraid of the carelessness day after day and the unfathomable Jianghu among people. And I would rather keep the beauty and purity in my dream and walk on the edge of the words in my destiny. Even if you just live in the happiness of your own weaving, you are also willing to live like this in your whole life, embedding the joy of words into every inch of time. I like the sentence written by Jian Zheng in “Smoke wave Blue”. Just look at it like this until the floating world is seen as dust on the eyelashes. I am willing to hold a pure and beautiful feeling like this, staring at the winding clouds in the depth of the flowing light, and passing through the sky of life like a glimpse of the floating light. Those trivial disappointments and the complexity of people’s hearts were all hidden away in the peaceful smoke blue. At this moment, the rain outside the window was falling gradually, knocking on the window lattice, melancholy became a song of departing in the late spring. The wanton wind carried the silk and fell into the distant sky in the dark. In the sparse rain line, he stranded himself in the past thoughts. Looking back on the time when writing, those emotions accumulated to a certain degree were diffused between the lines, like finding a quiet exit. The pain which is enchanted in life is scattered like dust in a kind of whisper which is almost muttering to oneself. It was like the enchanting bloom of liquid in blood vessels in the dark night like flowers, and then they decided to leave. Like (prose editor: Jiangnan wind) change the way to continue to stay with this city I went out at 6 o’clock in the morning and came back at almost 8 o’clock in the evening. From beginning to end, I only welcomed myself with silence; Since I went to college, on weekends… [Original essay] string words Since winter, the sky is dry and the snow is misty. The whole earth is desolate and empty. 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