I have always believed that the words I love can take me to fly, like a kite roaming in the sky, skimming over the birds and kapok trees, and then returning like migratory birds, continuing to perform the unfinished story.
When I re-packed my luggage and continued this unfinished journey, the castle that carried the fairy tale in my memory had turned into a kingdom of words, where the people opened their arms to embrace me. They said to me: "Welcome," or "Welcome back." A group of children lying in the passage of youth built a castle with words, and the castle endowed the children with beautiful and innocent wishes. Boys have white horses, knight armors and swords, and very gentlemanly earl costumes. Girls wear white pleated skirts and little formal shirts, like beautiful princesses in fairy tales, and there are also glass slippers in their pockets. They gathered in the castle to prepare for a carefully arranged ball, and decorated their small wishes with words. The background music is quiet piano music, sadness seems to be the main melody, planning and brewing a grand, never-ending warm light feast, a banquet of words from youth.
The song of youth has thus drifted all the way, from the magnificent and splendid hall to the dark and tranquil forest, from the desolate and lonely night sky to the perfect fairy tale moonlight lake. Words romantically supported the fantasy, the boy continued to look for his dance partner, and the elegant and graceful dance moves highlighted the strange and mysterious steps, winning applause from the audience. The boy bowed and flicked his fingers, imagining that his princess was not far away, smiling at him. The girl waited under the moonlight for someone who could hold hands and walk through the lakeside with her. She hoped that a prince would take her far away and accompany her through the peaceful forest and the moonlight lake. The process was as beautiful as a fairy tale, unforgettable.
In a year, after constant encounters, the castle achieved brilliance in its dazzling splendor. Her light was so dazzling that it made me, who had been away for a long time, feel lost. So, I stood in the distance and watched, seeing many people walk out of it, and many people walk into it. Then I couldn't help but smile.
I believe there is always a plot in the story that makes me burst into tears.
I believe there is always a period of time in youth that makes me long remember.
I believe there is always a place in memory that makes me linger and forget to return.
Shuttling between the Internet and words, I am committed to every encounter, every story, and every period of time.
As reality and illusion alternate back and forth, time changes some original intentions. Those things that were once replaced by words have all been shattered by the invincible reality. Ideals can never catch up with the pace of time, so for a period of time, I did not write, after all, life is more important. The imagined fairy tale can only be used to beautify a boring life. Thus, during those days when I squandered and climbed, I forgot the words that warmed me.
Seeing time stride forward step by step, I didn't stop to look back, nor did I reminisce, but I will not forget, because I haven't learned to let go yet. So when the wind ran towards me, I imagined it could blow up a fairy tale. Equivalent to a legend, blowing over thousands of mountains and rivers, thousands of years later, leaving an indelible mark in people's hearts. But can the kite in my hand still be happily flown? I think it will! Because I believe.
If the track of the kite flying can be used as the gap to search for time, then before the shallow sleep of time, please let me write a paper about youth.
A page filled with stories folded in half became a blank reverse side, and on the paper surface, only faint blurred characters could be seen, like a brand and me. I stood in the center of the white paper, but I couldn't see through or finish her story and the people who have always accompanied her. In fact, regarding the brand and meeting you, I think I should belong to passing by or one of those fish who just want to immerse themselves in the ocean of words. I don't have that kind of lasting, lifelong sentiment like Ping. After all, I didn't participate in the founding, nor did I follow from the beginning until now. When I plunged into here, I forgot who and who said: "Hello." Who and who said: "Goodbye." Then who wrote the fairy tale into a story with a pen, who silently watched her grow without speaking, who left decisively and gracefully. These seem unimportant now. What's important is that at this particular time, there are still so many people cherishing, recording, and missing.
Time folds, kites fly, and then memories fill the sky. White clouds are the words spreading across my fingers, and the blue sky is the emotion waiting to be dyed.