A person alone, a person is a wilderness.

There is a common small flower in the autumn field, which looks round, lavender lace and apricot blossom, like a beautiful flower disk. The flower heart is delicate, and it is pitiful to bask outside. If the surrounding environment is best combined, it will be combined into a delicate leather bag. I just don't know how exquisite a baby can live in such a beautiful home. Because the flower is very small, you can only look closely when you are close, and the distance is a point. She seems to realize her smallness. There is never a flower on a plant, but dozens. Instead of blooming one by one, dozens of flowers bloom together, and often dozens of plants are connected into one. The momentum is there, and the name is there: forget me.

Even if there are famous flowers, I feel tired when I look at all directions and listen to all directions. Isn't the flower name too flattering? How can there be such a name? Don't forget me. Don't forget me. No matter how hard you try, no matter how beautiful you laugh, you will eventually be forgotten. Hibiscus roses are born noble and need no reminder. When you see it, you will never forget it. That sense of superiority is innate. Who can compete with heaven?

Friends don't care what forget me, what flowers and plants, no matter. I'm with them. We all come to play in the wild. They jumped up and down, as excited as monkeys. I am not like a monkey. I want to be an ant. I like ants. Ants are veritable Hercules and can carry things several times larger than their own bodies. So can I. If the thoughts on my back can be weighed, I am more powerful than ants. My friend began to hide. Don't forget to remind me before hiding, people are hiding, but they have lost their souls. No, I'm more sober than them. Their heartlessness is worrying.

They hid, took great pains and insisted on cats, a place where no one in the world could find them. I'm not worried about not finding it. I'll find it sooner or later anyway. Always like this. No matter how sleek, no one will become a butterfly or a bee. Besides, autumn is short, winter comes, and snowy winter is more exciting and charming.

Besides forget me, there are dog tail flowers, morning glory flowers, gourd flowers, and some flowers as small as rice grains. If you don't look carefully, you can't tell whether they are flowers or leaves, but they are still blooming like real flowers, holding smiling faces. I want to persuade them not to drive, no matter how hard they drive, no one will see it, let alone be remembered.

My friend is not a flower the size of a grain of rice, but popcorn. I can't find it with a bang. There are not many places to hide in the wild. I have looked in the grass and Woods, but I dare not go to the deepest part. There is no cave nearby, so no one will hide in it. However, there are no grass trees, no trees, and I can't find them anywhere.

I began to feel uneasy and anxious, wandering alone in the wild. Everyone came together, so they should go back together. No matter how half-hearted I am, I really left them without thinking. They are not worried about flowers the size of rice grains, but they are my partners. I can live without flowers, but I can't live without flowers. But I can't find them, I can't find them anywhere.

I secretly swear that no matter how long it takes, I will find them and ask them clearly, one by one. Why did you leave me alone? I want them to know that I am angry, angry, angry, and then I will never talk to them again.

However, they didn't give me a chance, and they didn't give me any chance. They disappeared without a trace. I've been looking for it, even the cracks in the stone. The more you look at it, the more anxious you are, and the softer your heart becomes. I won't dislike anyone who comes out suddenly, even if it is from a mouse hole. Willy-nilly, I will hold on to the ground and never give up until I take a few bites. However, I shouted at the top of my lungs to wear shoes. In autumn, the mountains are closed by heavy snow, and there are only traces of birds in the wild.

Countless spring, summer, autumn and winter passed, and the frog prince became a grandfather, and I finally found them. They didn't find it together. They came out one by one, and it was a surprise to meet again. From their mouths, I understand that no one is intentional, but they are separated unconsciously.

At first it was butterflies, bees and dragonflies, and then it was hawthorn, grapes, dates, spikes and black stars. I lost my way before I knew it, and never returned to my original place. They have good reason. I look sorry. I impulsively want to invite everyone to go to the wild again and promise not to take care of any flowers and plants. If I want to throw them away, I will throw them away together. However, the words stopped again.

I was surprised to find that their faces, hands and bodies were covered with the smell of grass, and their voices were the same as those of spring water. I don't have to go to the field again, so I can smell it. It wasn't them, it was me.

This discovery shocked me. Why, I went back to the place I loved as a child more than once, but it was me who really couldn't go back. I will never mention the wilderness to anyone again, and I am ashamed to say it. It's not that I can't find them at all, but that they can't find me, and I have complained to them more than once. I don't mention the wilderness to anyone, I don't mention others, I deliberately bypass them, or not just them, but also the life I face. I want to describe the time to go to the wilderness as an escape journey, a confusion and sitcom caused by frivolous life.

I'm not with them anymore. I was infected by the problems in the wild, sloppy, willful and disoriented. These are carefully cultivated in the wild, thanks to wild flowers and weeds. The terrible thing is that I'm used to it. Getting rid of it is equivalent to stopping breathing. However, my ability is nothing more than thinking regardless of time and place. They must have found these bad signs from me early, so they avoided me at a distance. If they are there all the time, they will restrain me. As a result, they left me and gave me more room to play.

This is also a specialty, which gives me a special position in writing poetry. This is also quite gratifying. My rich imagination still helped me. Sometimes, I even think that this is simply a gift, and I can't stand wild flowers and weeds. Not everyone can think of stones as flowers, but a few people will care about where the clouds come from and worry about whether the river will have nowhere to go.

But I will.

I am an intern in Q textile factory. Every time I work the night shift, I have to help the master finish the work, so I hide in the corner and write poems. Pens are prepared in advance, a pencil tip and an oil refill, whatever, just print. Paper is taken out of the toilet, ephedra paper, cut into neat squares, very fresh, without the smell of the toilet. Now that I think about it, I still think it is the best paper in the world. I can also bring manuscript paper. I always feel that manuscript paper is only suitable for copying, not for creation. The rules on the manuscript paper are depressing. To write a poem well, we must first loosen the words. It is not good to be in the middle of the rules. Ephedra paper is rough, like a field; The manuscript paper is ok, like gardens, fields and gardens. I would rather walk in the field than in the garden.

Slightly insufficient, the texture of ephedra paper affects the feel, and it will crack if you are not careful. This is very frustrating. It's more troublesome to change another one and have to go to the toilet. Sometimes, you can make more copies when the administrator is not looking. There's nothing wrong with taking more. Even if I'm found out, she'll think I'm upset at best, and killing me has nothing to do with writing poetry.

Fortunately, my aunt didn't ask me once, but she succeeded every time. I am glad that my life is still rich and inclusive, so don't worry too much. It's just that I can't take writing poetry as a just thing, which makes me feel unhappy.

I don't fully understand poetry. Poetry is a secret box. I don't know why I have so many secrets to collect. I can't find a better way to tell it except poetry.

I write poems, and at the same time, I teach the master who stops cars to flirt with the foreman. It took the master three minutes to tell me the essentials of parking, and the rest of the exercises were up to me. As long as I finish her work, she never cares what I do, and writing poems and scenery has nothing to do with her. All the time I saved for her, she was entangled with the foreman. No matter what the public sees, she is there. During the time when I was her apprentice, the master's cheeks were always moist, white and red, and her charming mouth was painted as a red cherry every day.

Petite master and kind foreman are very interesting together. Every day is an action. The foreman grabbed the foreman by the collar, blushed, stood on tiptoe, and stood up like a piece of fat meat sent into the tiger's mouth. Her voice is also beautiful, which reminds me of a poem: | "Two orioles singing green willows". This poem is most suitable for a master.

The host likes to wear red clothes, which are wrapped in a thin uneven waist, reminding me of my third aunt who lived next door when I was a child. Three aunts died in their thirties in a foreign land. Since the third aunt left the painting, everyone felt something was missing, and I don't know what was missing. Third aunt is cheerful and loud, and can be played by men, women and children. The only drawback is that she always feels that she should be a flower in the wind instead of staying in the greenhouse all day, so she chose to wander without hesitation.

After the death of my third aunt, my old neighbor's former residence sighed for a long time, and N times imagined what it would be like for my third aunt to live for another 20 years. I really want to know what kind of life my third aunt had after she left the painting, and why she died so early. I feel that the master is also unlucky. She has a face that will always be exposed, and the wall can't stop it. Outside the house is the sky, and the sky is unobstructed. She is really going to fly out, just like my third aunt who ran away from home.

My fears are by no means groundless, master. I am not only the audience, but also everyone's eyes. Other people's eyes are not like mine, and I occasionally wander in the wild. Eyes are different from eyes, some are watery, some are irritable, and the combination of watery and irritable is flood and fire, that is, the fire in Daxinganling and the flood in the Yangtze River. I'm nervous, master is not nervous, and I don't care if the sky falls. She must have thought that innocence had collapsed and the foreman was there.

However, the sky didn't fall, the fire didn't burn, and everything seemed normal. No one cared. No matter what I did, no matter what the master did, everyone was busy. No matter who it was, everyone's face was like a box full of secrets, and I couldn't find the key.

I think everyone is a poem, so is the master and the foreman. Poetry is different from poetry. The master and foreman are avant-garde, and I am vague. The difference is that the avant-garde advocates performance art, and I advocate ideological portraits. Misty poetry is quiet, even wolves bark gracefully, and it is absolutely impossible to roar like a lion. The world is noisy enough. Stop talking so loudly. The factory is not a wilderness, but can only be imagined as a wilderness. Imagination is far from reality.

When writing poetry, I don't think about anything else, and I don't want to grow sweet potatoes into potatoes. Write fluently. If you can write ten or eight songs in one night, no matter how beautiful it is, you won't get carried away. You can have fun for a while at most. My sadness and happiness are ballooning, and I need to lose weight. I don't know if others have it, and how others digest it. Is the master also slimming for his own desires? Can I also learn from her experience? Her appearance really made me hesitate. Anyway, she looks so happy, laughing from work to work. I have never laughed like her. Her smile is far better than the sadness reflected in my poem. Why should happiness be blamed, how good it is to laugh, why should we write poems, and why can't we be like three aunts and six grandmothers?

The workshop is very dark, and there are layers of fog and dust in the light and shadow. The dust collector has been ringing all day, but there is still fine dust coming out. Fortunately, I am wearing a mask and a hat. Except how comfortable it is to get a cotton wool in my eyes occasionally, even if I can only write some sad poems, I am fine.

I still want to write poetry, no matter how happy the host looks, but the host is the host and I am me. I can't find a new outlet except writing poems. Poetry is a newly discovered wilderness. Without wilderness, I can only grow in mid-air. It's sad to feel rootless Although I envy a dandelion dancing with the wind, although I think of my third aunt who is away from home many times, I still can't learn from Master. The teacher is one or two years older than me, but I have stayed in school longer than her, so I should be her teacher. However, the master didn't seem to think of it here. Master, every day is different from what I think. I often suspect that the sky above us is not the same.

However, there is not much time to write poems every day. Poetry will be hidden when there are many people. Poetry can be hidden, but I can't. Once the poem was hidden, I saw it more Mu Na and lost. Fortunately, it is not difficult to find a place where poetry and I don't have to hide. Of course, it can't be me I like being with my friends. My friends have all kinds of friends, but only I can write poetry. Friends can't write, it doesn't affect us to be friends. With my friends, I never talk about poetry, and I don't advise my friends to write poetry. Not everyone can write poetry. If I can't write well, I can't afford it.

Occasionally, I will be possessed, and swear to my friends that one day, I will drag a balloon to the sky. My friends envy my ambition and don't care. She said that she would never write a poem, not because she couldn't, but because she didn't want to. What's the use of poetry? The friend said. I don't know how to answer. Poetry represents loneliness, and friends don't want to be lonely, so friends don't want to write poetry. I see. I also believe that my friends never gloat. I think I really fell, and she won't watch it with nothing to do, that's for sure. But I'm still lost I hope we can become closer partners, not partners who lost fun when playing as children. I'm afraid that the wilderness will eventually be just my own wilderness.

I also want to run away from poetry, wear colorful clothes like a friend, laugh like a host, live like running water and keep up with fashion. Fashion is worth pursuing. Fashion is running water that won't rot. I can't let my body smell of mildew and weeds rotting in the wild. How wonderful the world is. I can't be too serious. I can't be more like a stone when I'm with a stone. But I can't escape.

Dissatisfied with yourself, dissatisfied with people around you. Who are they? Where are they from? Why should I be with them? They don't know poetry. Why should I be with them? In fact, I am them, and so are my poems. They and I care about each other and love each other, and we are inseparable all day. Who else could they be? Why does the sense of distance in my heart spread like a germ every day, eroding my body and mind? I'm afraid of losing them. I've been alone for too long. Inadvertently separated from childhood friends and searched hard for many years. Now I don't want to lose them. I tell myself in despair every day that you like them, that you live with them every day, that you are the same person as them, that their faces are your faces, that their voices are your voices, and that their flax smell is also your smell, which can't be eliminated after soaking for three days.

I saw myself clearly, just like I saw the forget-me-not blooming in the wild. The cry I heard came not from forget-me-not, but from my mouth. I like them, they all have a simple and happy face, because I don't have that face, so I want to keep shouting at them as if I were forgotten.

No matter how far I go, no matter how many years have passed, I miss them, call them, miss the wilderness like a cloud, and hate them as the wind follows the grassland.

How long have we been together? Eight girls, girls like eight flowers, live in a house called "303" and live as a family. Eight beds, like eight neatly arranged matchboxes, one is cold, and soon the other will light itself like a match.

I also burn, see the fire, see the ashes. I often have something wet in my eyes. I see the sun and the back of the sun. I have to check with the girls from time to time. They were adamant and warned me not to take an umbrella when it rained. I like poetry.

My bed is near the window, which gives me more opportunities to look out of the window. I once saw an English film called A Room with a View. This is a film that exposes hierarchy and racial prejudice. At that time, because the name was nice, I decided to read it. The self-restraint of the film is beyond imagination. I am more concerned about my mood when I sit by the window and watch the scenery. What's the difference between mine and others'?

More often, my heart is asleep, more relaxed, and I don't have to torture myself with the complexity of others. When the sun is shining, hold a handful in your heart. There are often cold corners in my heart, and the corners that others can't warm need sunshine. "303" is such a place, a house where sunshine can enter and exit. There are eight small families at home, and my small family is covered with bed curtains, which is where the dream begins. Every time I go home, I want to live in it and have a good dream. Tired for eight hours, I turned like a machine for eight hours. The past eight hours were like a black hole that was too dark to see my fingers. And next time, you must dream first and then think about something else. On the same day, I sat on the bed where I lived for more than two years, comfortably leaning on the quilt, and after a while my dream came. However, the dream of that day was short. I listened carefully outside the door. The room is empty, the corridor outside is empty, and the sky outside the window is still the same as before. Everything is no different from the past, only I have to go.

No one came back. I will wait for seven flowers to come back. When you leave, you must see seven charming flowers and seven lovely faces. Nobody came back, nobody knew I was leaving. I didn't know I would leave. Suddenly, the injury on the wrist recurred and needed to rest. It may be a few days, it may be longer, and there are many possibilities, but this is a possibility that I will never think about. This is a place where I can no longer live.

Now I don't have to close my eyes, I can still clearly remember the sound of the pull ring when I pull the bedspread. The sound of spring water has been haunting my mind for many years. In fact, white gauze curtains are nothing. As soon as there is wind, it will float, and the gauze curtain that floats is like a hazy poem. Now I don't write misty poems anymore, because I have never lived in a room with a transparent veil.

The door of 303 is locked behind me. It was not locked by hand, but on the air duct in the corridor. It's loud and loud, and it's still ringing for many years. The wind is sentimental and clamoring to send me away. Only it knows that I will never come again.

I really left, jumped downstairs three times and two times, and met one of the seven flowers in the stairwell: X. I lived in the bed on the right with X. We entered the factory together and worked and lived together for nearly three years.

X said, go home. I said, well, I asked for leave, and my hand and neck hurt. X continued to go upstairs, suddenly turned and shouted, come back early, I will miss you. Thank you. I didn't stop. I wish I could stop. One person said that she would miss me. She said how touching her expression was when she missed me, and her black eyes flashed. I should stop and have a look. Stop and talk to x for a while. When we are excited, maybe we will shake hands and hug, just because we don't know when we can shake hands again, just because we don't always have a chance to hear others say that she will miss you.

I didn't do anything. X and I got separated in the stairwell, and the only sound was blown away by a long time. I can't forget "303", and I can't forget the farewell X in the stairwell. I even suspected that it was not X that I met in the stairwell, but Y, or any of the seven flowers. I put them in the stairwell one by one to say goodbye to me. This idea is perfect, and missing gives me the best reason so that I can see them at different times.

Later, when I had the opportunity to return to "303", things had changed and today was different.

There is someone else living in my bed, the white gauze curtain is gone, and I can't hear the sound of the pull ring. I sleep in X's bed and look at me who lives in mine. "I" was wrapped in a quilt, and it was like this for many nights. I almost couldn't help waking me up.

I lifted the corner of the quilt of "X" and put it under my nose, and I couldn't smell the smell of "X" anymore.

Time has shifted a lot, and I can't find what I'm looking for. I can't sleep. It was dark outside the window. I am like an invisible bird, curled up, quietly combing my feathers, licking my wounds and flying alone in the dark fields.

(Words: 6800)