Essay on flowering prose

Flowering Prose Essay 1 After dark, I feel like a haze. Makes me want to release this pure youth in the wind.

From the beginning of accepting life, the cached memories grow up slowly, like crops planted in the ground, accumulating year after year, and the longer they grow, the higher they get. The joy of harvest in accumulation will eventually wither. For a long time, I understood. What a good life, or the result of fate.

In fact, I am a person who never believes in fate. Maybe it's the trouble of reading those inspirational books. They always make people feel high-spirited easily. The strongest desire erupts in passion. Finally, when the desire disappears, even I have forgotten that I burned it.

The age of fire. Always in the early youth, the age when you can do whatever you want. If you don't understand, but you know the world in general, you still can't admit that you have only touched the surface of the world. We don't believe that at that age, life is like early spring. When a group of women compete for beauty, they often isolate themselves from all interference and try their best to keep their self-convergence mature.

When the flowering period enters the middle stage, smiling at the sun, still burning more and more intense dreams.

How great the dream is, so great that people ignore the true value of the ideal. That's the age of dreaming. Born for dreams, there is also a life that occasionally falls for dreams. It is an unbearable life, a fragile life. What you have no chance to regret is a careless life. Many people regard their weak lives as their fate.

Those who stay need fate badly. In advance, in retreat, in the desire for wealth, fame and fortune. This may be when the flowering period is slightly mature. Will allow more people to start the so-called real life. Everyone's goals seem to be suddenly clear at this stage. In fact, it is nothing more than wealth. Those values of life, to prove their claims, can only be measured by wealth.

We accept this beautiful world. The good mood of roaming and sailing will be clearly recorded in the mobile phone. This time will be an unforgettable memory for a lifetime. Whether it is vigorous or miserable, we are all deeply hidden in our hearts. This brave and desperate period.

Life is like a flower. Germination, flowering, flowering. Where are we now, lost in a fixed period? Do you know that?/You know what?

Essays on Flowering Prose 2: We are both unfamiliar and familiar. These days, that feeling has long been buried.

Sometimes I get caught up in too many memories. Missing is still there, but life goes on. Sadness will slowly let go.

Looking at the bustling crowd outside, I found myself alone there. So I just stayed at home and didn't go out, so I wouldn't look so lonely.

Suddenly miss the happy days.

Maybe I'm too lonely, and sometimes I want to find someone to accompany me.

Maybe I'm too tired and want someone to lean on, so I know you! But I didn't expect that it was just the beginning of loneliness.

We have been looking for our ending.

However, they clearly know that they can't go back, but they can still persist in saving it.

I think I'm used to living alone.

At least, I have short but unforgettable memories.

Everything that has happened can only be replaced by memories, although it is short-lived!

I thought we would be sad to lose contact.

But who knows that I just calmly accept this less sad result.

You said, you love me, you have never loved any girl so much, so sincerely!

I think your love is too fake, space, so that I can't see through what you said is true!

Those loves are so unrealistic that they wither before the flowering season.

You said, "I gave my heart to others, and yours is for me!" " What is the deadline?

The answer is: love has its own end, although I know it is impossible to wait for me all the time, but my heart is still a little happy!

In fact, that heart has never promised anyone.

I'm afraid I can't get it back if I lose it one day, so I keep it carefully! I am afraid that one day I will cry alone. My eyes are haggard. You don't understand, and you can't see! However, there is no comfort!

Because the oath is too perfect and intoxicating, you never promised!

You said you dreamed that you were married, but it wasn't me.

You said that if everything started from scratch, he would have no chance.

The flowering period is the most precious, but who can blame for missing it?

There are so many lives. What if it is?

Sometimes, I know I will get hurt, but I never stop. Because I have expectations in my heart!

Sometimes, I know I will be happy, but I stop. Afraid of being sad again.

Sometimes, two people who clearly love each other are separated by some episodes.

Sometimes, I can't love it anymore ... because all that love is used up!

Flowering Prose Essay 3 After several months, I once again put pen to paper and read the paragraph left yesterday, which is still my passionate and inspiring friend. Or deep and calm, remembering life; Or sentimental, expounding the proverbs of love, but all this is so emotional and empty, staying in fantasy. Looking back, bit by bit, they are just simple, and the feelings entrusted by these symbols gradually become shallow with the passage of time, such as light smoke, wind and air.

I am used to calling what I write words, which have nothing to do with literature and are more casual than articles. In this way, in sleepless nights, all the joys, all the sorrows, all the thoughts and all kinds of entanglements have moved from my heart and face to those words. Maybe I, like many people, just vent and tell in my own way. Over time, I rely heavily on this method. If I don't write for a long time, people will be like rotten wood.

April on earth is as beautiful as a fleeting time, and the world after spring returns to the earth is full of the fragrance of the earth. But there is one thing. In spring, I don't get drunk with flowers, only enjoy misty rain, just like in late autumn, I don't cling to fruits, only leaves. Everyone has different feelings about each season. In Hunan, which is neither too south nor too north, I have lived for nearly four years, and more or less there will always be a kind of sustenance that belongs to my heart, or it will turn into misty rain or fallen leaves. Whenever this season, I always feel that spring comes back too early, and the temperature will turn cold after rising, but the spring rain at this time makes this seemingly strange time series normal.

A misty rain and a cold,

Half-round sunset reflected the western hills.

The most fascinating place is Hunan water.

Sleep in the wind of Taohua Temple.

Deep in the misty rain, the foggy river looks a little pale, and the rape fields by the river are not as lively as I know. There are no bees around the butterfly, there is no fragrance, and there is no noise of tourists enjoying flowers on sunny days. However, there is no lack of vitality. The faint golden color contrasts with the blurred river surface, and occasionally passing ships stir up a few clear waves, which is also a kind of scenery. I don't know when I began to like this scenery, and I don't know how long it has been since I enjoyed a season so calmly. I have tried all kinds of environments and different moods of love. Finally, I found out that I am suitable for quiet and solitude.

Maybe I am used to seeing the sadness after the spring flowers and the autumn moon, maybe I have read the desolation of prosperity, maybe I have tasted the bitterness of missing each other. So I enjoy the simple life of coming and going alone, and it's good to have one plain clothes with one hand and one mind. I don't know why, so calm, or calm. Some people think that twenties is not an age to be calm, but to be energetic, so as to be considered as youth. I don't think so. The hardest thing in your twenties is to be calm. I often see people around me in a hurry, pursuing everything they desire. I am no exception, but I am in no hurry. I was lucky, but I lost my life.

Yes, I am much calmer than before. I may see something, hear a song or pass by somewhere, and still think of old friends and stories, but I am not as enthusiastic as before. I just smiled indifferently. Oh, I have been to this world, or I am a passer-by, or I am the protagonist.

The misty rain is slight, and the window screen is light and cold, just right. There are no mountains in the distance, and Green Ruyan Liu is nearby. Life is full of spring, and there is no residue in dreams. Take a walk in the lounge without an umbrella and enjoy the cool spring rain. If it's really untrue and hazy, you haven't realized that it's getting late, but time has long since passed. If life is an encounter, I would rather choose this warm rainy season. Light wind and misty rain, dotted with filar silk, began at this time and ended this season. I always feel that besides sunshine, land, horses and food, life should also have such light fog and rain. In such a beautiful season, it melts like the wind, scatters like fog, falls slightly and drops like mud.

In fact, I just want to describe this misty rain without emotion, which has nothing to do with people. Open the window independently every morning, feel the coolness coming, then move out the asparagus pot, put it in front of the window, turn on the computer and play an old song as the beginning of the day. When night falls, move back to the potted plant, take another breath of cold air and close the window as the end of the day. Over and over again, I am not bored, and I am deeply impressed by the layers of new leaves it has grown. So simple and far away, I like this life.

Many times, we are used to sharing our inexplicable feelings with strangers, just like pinning our faint sadness in misty rain. Say it easily and naturally, and never care about the final result and feelings. A story is a story after all, and passers-by are passers-by after all. It won't understand your feelings, perhaps out of respect, it will express some approval, or out of * * *, it will cherish its own story. The trajectory of life is never predestined. Who you meet and who you miss are all chances, just like the unpredictable misty rain in spring. When you indulge in enjoyment, the stars will be bright and the wind will be clear. When you stop looking forward, you will never see the sun again.

A misty rain and a dream, the past turns back, leaving endless nostalgia and sadness. But if you don't wake up, there will be no sadness.

In this rainy spring, it has always been given a sad tone, either hurting spring or falling in love with spring. I also know very well that after this season, it is parting. After parting, the two places are desolate, or we can say goodbye earlier to disperse the sadness at that time. As a result, rain is the carrier of tears, but I won't cry. I tried to cry, but I found that in the rain, I couldn't tell whether it was tears or not.

I will not cry

The conversation between tears and rain

Only then did I know that I was not sad at the moment.

Can't stand/endure

Looking back on the road alone.

Why do I never cry?

It turned out that tears were turned into stories.

Grievance and loneliness

This is a few lines of blank text.

It was not until I wrote it that I realized that it was not so unbearable.

Who cried in the Tang, Song, Yuan, Ming and Qing Dynasties?

Qu Yuan just sighed and hid his voice.

I will not cry

Bet with each other today and tomorrow.

Who knows how winning or losing will make you bear it?

Look at tomorrow's picture silently.

Why don't I cry?

Yuan Hua sang calmly and wept.

Hopes and ideas

It's a series of heartless notes.

I didn't know that I was not so affectionate until I played and sang.

Gong Shang's horn was feathered, and no one would cry.

After crossing the mountain, the water is still rolling eastward.

I will not cry

You don't understand.

All the sadness in the world

It is a blessing.

There must be sunny days and misty rain.

Once the spring twilight is old, when will it be salty?

Essay on Flowering Prose 4 Yue Ming miserly said that its glory did not touch my window lattice, raised his head and looked for it carefully, but he didn't see enough and gave up, so he waited until it rained in the middle of the night. I didn't wait; The faint light is covered by too much haze, which makes people wonder whether it is still there.

I accidentally turned to an old letter, and the rough and yellow envelope was getting thicker and thicker by the years. Judging from the handwriting, when it was a letter from my father in his early years-no wonder it was the address of my hometown, the handwriting of the pen was blurred by moisture, just like the relevant memory had been washed away. West Lane, West Lane, I murmured. House numbers and house numbers fall on rice paper like a drop of casual ink, but they can't outline the specific outline. An impulse welled up from the bottom of my heart. I rushed out of the house and waited for a while, determined to find my old house, even if it was just a look, and stayed in my heart. Or a good hospital for epilepsy, maybe something has not been found for a long time.

However, I only have her name, and I whisper those words over and over again, unable to figure out the geographical location;

However, I still have a belief, a completely poetic belief, which was inspired by Linxi to find the fence of epilepsy symptoms in my heart.

Fortunately, in the memory of the western suburbs of the city, outside the train window, I happened to meet an old house and an ancient monument intertwined with alleys. I am old at a glance, but my back is so calm and determined; I think what I am looking for must be there. Boarding the short-distance train to the west of the city, there are not many stops, but it is longer than waiting for a whole century-time seems to be particularly unfavorable when people are trying to find something. In the fleeting sight, the scenery quietly faded its gorgeous robe. Finally, it is the last stop. It seems that there is still a long way to go. Not far away, the low house is like a melody without lyrics, like the shadow of a city, and like the soul of past lives covered with plain yarn. However, my heart is still empty, and I may be like a shadow.

The left and right feet mechanically alternate back and forth, fast, slow, running and walking. I was so concerned about the potholes in the alley that I was absorbed in every step and looked up in surprise-I happened to see an old woman in coarse clothes leaning back on the couch, evenly naked. It seems that life can be so comfortable, quietly leaning against the sun, like an open wet umbrella waiting to be evaporated. This is something I have rarely seen in recent years. Suddenly, the appearance of several old women jumped out of my mind with joy. I don't know why. I haven't seen my grandparents since I was a child, and my father is busy. I always paint and sing, and my life is very happy. I don't remember the rest, so I was led by my grandmother arm in arm and walked around the street for as long as painting. I guess grandma Zhao and grandma Wang used to put a recliner under the sun at the corner of the lane and chat like this, probably the same; However, they are probably dead; Their time is old, leaving me a good life, and I have more responsibilities and obligations in my happiness.

At the end of an alley, I saw a low gray wall about to block my way, so I thought about turning around and leaving. However, the rather pungent laughter and abuse in a semi-Mandarin and semi-dialect stirred my eardrums.

A tomboy in slippers squatted in front of the low wall. It's a pleasure to be busy with my silent step, as if I could take a step further from my childhood. I saw her holding a brush, doodling flowers and plants on the wall, and more shapeless lines. Such an arrogant brush, such a magnificent masterpiece, a little painter will stick to it and make it full of dust. No wonder she was scolded. I couldn't help laughing, but I was afraid to disturb them. I lowered my head to suppress my laughter until I started to sniffle inadvertently. It happened that she drew a big grid for hopscotch with a small red brick under her feet, and the Chinese character "There are many people in the mountains" was written on the ground in another corner. Clumsy pens, like clumsy words, are often the most touching.

I'm used to slowing down. I think only an empty and ignorant heart will rush away. The road is endless. If you don't go to the roadside to collect wind, no matter how fast you move forward, it's always the same as standing still. I am not a shadow, I am a soul, and I have a body. Every step of the scenery deserves my appreciation, admiration and even love. I've been looking for it for a long time.

Later, I happened to see a stone tablet guiding the way at the intersection, which seemed to be engraved with some lane names. I looked patiently and searched, but none of the alleys here seemed to be the west alley I wanted.

I didn't find it in the end. Maybe it's just like people hate water since childhood and never come back.

Travel is a process of finding while losing. After all, I have to understand that what has passed away cannot be returned. Even if I find an analogy, it is no longer the person I can rely on. After all, things have changed. But I was unexpectedly relaxed, not even half disappointed and half vicissitudes. Maybe my spiritual sustenance will flash in other people's lives and in another corner of the world. Time flies, grinding the edges and corners of life, and inevitably there are endless melancholy, perhaps frustrated with others, perhaps frustrated, perhaps just nostalgic melancholy, such as clouds covering the moon; But it is not the sense of killing in Changchun Spring and Autumn, but it is sharp. Happy flowers always bloom in every gap of life, and happiness should be to master the bits and pieces at hand; All the joys and sorrows I have experienced are cherished, at least what I left behind is like the hospital for treating cerebral palsy in Nantong and my shadow, just like the shadow of the city here, which is indispensable and should not be forgotten. But we can't let the rut of feelings blur the great happiness of the world.

I don't know from which direction there was a loud cry, and I don't know which mother called the child to eat. I don't know what time it is. Maybe mom is waiting for me to go back to dinner, I think.

I quickened my pace and ran to the station.

Five invitations to essays on flowering prose

The wind on the plateau beat the magpies.

Pentium wings

Tell me there will be guests in evening dresses.

Come all the way from a distance

Wear beautiful Tibetans.

Buckets handed down from generation to generation.

Specially to get water and koumiss from the holy lake.

Standing at the gateway in the moonlight

That pious place.

voicelessly

I see every bowl of holy water.

The moon is covered with white Hada.

You don't have an appointment at midnight

Take multicolored marble as an order

Determined to go north

You said rape blossoms smell yellow.

This is the paradise you dream of worshipping.

My crystal eyes

You said it was like an oil painting handed down from ancient times.

Chrysanthemum yellow covered with snowflakes

Charm becomes the bright light of your trip to the south.

Find the direction to beat the soul.

I sincerely pray for you.

Invite the moonlight to wash you.

Singing outside the white felt house

You said the gate of heaven

Only accept grass as food.

A lamb without distractions.

Look into the distance from a height

This is a battle.

Long-planned heavy snow

blossom bud

Born in Kilimanjaro, south of the equator.

Yarlung Zangbo River

Flowing on the river bed that has remained unchanged for thousands of years.

You use a passage from a volcanic eruption

Blocked my endless melancholy.

Stars at night

Looking at the sleeping Jiuqu Yellow River

Crushed the moonlight of Mingsha Mountain.

Stay by the Mogao grottoes

I will stand on the plateau all my life.

Stay with the spring crouching on the branches.

Look at your dark green poems in spring.

Can you heal the trembling wounds of the earth?

Covered with the fragrance of Saussurea involucrata

cycle of sixty years

A spring rain soaked the peach blossoms.

It's wet, too There are many misunderstandings and betrayals.

Such a sad spring

No longer eager for flowers to continue to be misplaced.

Rain splashed out of the window.

I miss flowerpots.

The sun hurts when it touches the moon.

Day after day, the grass on the roadside

No longer feel dejected by the disappearance of hooves.

How many flowers are there on tiptoe?

With my youth

Singing cicadas in memory of apoptosis

for a long time

It's a vine that potatoes keep pulling.

Low gray vegetables

Looking for the coast of lost scenery over and over again

The flowering period of each potato

This is comfort for a pair of crystal eyes.

All Dark Places

Extremely disappointed

The fable of avoiding seedling grafting

Potatoes have purple and white flowers

In some shy promises

Take off the petals

Hide one's virginity

Thinking that one day it will be just right.

A bright red veil

Always keep a copy.

Distant and familiar love

lump

Yecao stationery

A box full of backpackers

Lambs giving birth under snow-capped mountains

Learn to run at night.

Cold pebbles

Prove one's innocence with running water

Hold the hand of the water plant

Just trying to cover it up.

Love for Holly

Holly flowers are wandering.

Just to deliberately decline unfamiliar stones.

Shepherds don't understand the coldness of bluestones.

Only Blue Stone understands that it is in his genes.

Who is deliberately touching?

I always fantasize

It is your native bird in the rainforest.

On that day, an unknown arrow

Broke my dream route

I returned to my destiny.

Invite Cordyceps sinensis to escape flowering.

Through Hoh Xil

Cross the Daotang River

Even fly over the Himalayas.

The warmth of spring

I have no place to live.

The arms of a drunken dream.

I have long been cheated by Meng Po.

Can't melt the cold of the past.

Set memory

Roll up the white hair that changes instantly.

Look at the mirror with a smile.

A desire to fly high.

reborn

Life cries out in alcohol

Sharpness of scalpel

Cut the placenta from the mother.

Countless people, countless eyes

Step on me with a wry smile

Thinking about the truest love.

Borrow someone else's funeral

Mourn the lost love.

Bury a living lie.

I'm thinking.

Know more about those perfunctory years.

Jia holding the footprints of snow-capped mountains (1)

Stand up and walk to the ferry.

Get your life back.

Romance hanging on the branches of spring

Gorgeous dress

Stir the birds in the nest

Learn to whip your own love poems

Put feathers on the wellhead.

It is difficult to absorb the cold by tripping and tumbling.

Sparrows staying on the plateau

I used to lie on the tracks.

Declare an oath of love

Moving train

But I don't understand the regret of a bird.

Go to your own post office

Flowing breath

Cut open the pure white truth of life

Outside the coat of silence in the night

An unexpected meteor shower

Catch a bird

Unfinished wish

The most remote place

Flow time

Stuck by a slight vibration

crustal plate

I opened the spring smile.

The earth is short of clothes and food, and suffering wears a chest.

Great loss in Nepal

Released the memory of years of imprisonment.

Broke Yushu's five-year nightmare

That disaster

The song of Ajia in the snowy mountain is silent.

This season, it is still April.

I saw another disaster.

Crying from a foreign country

A keen niche who set foot in the moonlight city.

A delicate train hangs by a thread.

I look forward to the auspicious clouds on the horizon.

Cover up the fragile cold of human beings

Pray for all life in the world.

Stay away from disaster

The previous joys and sorrows

Destroyed by this unprecedented natural disaster.

I saw you in the distance.

Come to me step by step.

Embrace a cold heart that has been cured for a long time.

I saw it, too

Red flames galloped in the sky.

Due west: our sexual journey

Babies in ruins

Sleep in the warm arms of soldiers.

An angel in a white silk thread

Repair the wounds and cracks on every inch of soil.

Mother's boundless bosom

Sacrifice premature flowering

I know that every spring

There is inevitable cold in spring.

Every old scar and new wound

There will be flowers covering the scene.

In the sky, in front of you

The green fire in spring ignited the great love of the world.

Salvation in Nirvana

Note: ① Ajia in the snow-capped mountains: here only refers to Tibetan beauties on the snow-capped mountains.

2 Moonlight City: refers to the holy spirit Lhasa, the solemn Potala Palace.