A woman told me that she was really stupid when she was young. She once drew up a “blacklist” when she was extremely idle, on which was a man who had pursued her explicitly or implicitly. After a while, I took it out to have a look, counted it, and looked in the mirror narcissistically. That feeling was really good.
Her words brought me back to my 18-year-old youth. When people bloom like flowers, they are always a little frivolous, a little shallow and a little immature, with small defects that make people happy and unforgettable.
When I was in middle school, I lived in a bungalow, a large courtyard, which was enclosed by bamboo fences. Purple Morning Glory is wrapped around, and mixed with some fresh bowl-making flowers. There is a fig, a Bay and several stems of sparse bamboos in the yard. One summer afternoon, my parents told me: catch the cicadas in the yard, don’t go out. Then I went to take a nap. They don’t understand. I have passed the age of catching cicadas. I was full of a boy with black eyes. His eyes were so dark that there was a faint blue light, and his chin had the radian of Western Europeans. I like him, even though I haven’t said a word, and I haven’t received a pair of eyes. I found a piece of white paper and wrote down his name neatly. Then I dug a hole under the fig tree and buried the note deeply.
Several years later, we all went to college and had contacts, but it was not as beautiful as we had imagined. His eyes were very black, but there was no dark blue light. His chin was still very European, but the mouth above the chin was not my favorite language. Although he was excellent, we missed each other. How many years have passed, maybe that piece of paper has turned into Earth, but whenever I touch the root of memory, I hear a special voice, maybe from the deep heart, perhaps from the distant sky, the faint song is like the wind chimes.
I have a friend who was an educated youth in the queue. When she was young, she was beautiful and kind, but nobody pursued her so vigorously, so she hastily got married.
One evening, she was weeding in the wheat field. A man came to her, who was once a classmate, so she asked with a slight smile: What’s the matter? The man ran with sweat, poked in front of her stiffly, blushed and asked, “I heard that you are in love with XXX, is that true?” She just nodded. The man’s face turned pale in a flash, and tears surged out. He didn’t wipe away the tears all over his face, turned around and ran forward like a madman. My friend stared at the direction of his disappearance blankly. The sun was falling bit by bit. The gorgeous sunset glow and a gradually gone back were fixed into an old picture in her heart forever.
In the vulgar life, we often want to remember the names written on paper and recorded in the book, but we cannot remember them. There is only one container in the world, which can be filled up forever. That is the soul. A person always has some unspeakable stories, which are deeply buried in the bottom of his heart. You can hide it, to the depth that no one can touch in any time, and let it exist quietly, it is also a kind of beauty.