Wandering in the distance on the road, always in the rain evokes even more homesickness. The south wind is blowing, birds are flying over long grass; the season is here. Looking ahead from the balcony, blue skies and white clouds, green mountains - only reinforced cement buildings exist in the city, so I am reminded even more of home in the evening when smoke curls... Every moment in my heart, an inexplicable melancholy curls like smoke, seemingly telling a short season, the rush of people. I deemed this drift, questioned wandering far from home; when will I go back? Unconsciously, I've wandered for over twenty years in different places. From the county to the provincial capital, from the South to the North, I like to live like duckweed floating in one strange city after another. Meanwhile, the prime of life is gradually growing old, parents, brothers and sisters who were childhood playmates have married and have their own families, but I still live unrestrainedly in a foreign land.
The complexity of home is tied to my parents, missing loved ones, and attachment to the land that gave birth to me. Because of the presence of loved ones, whether it's a year or a few years later, or even taking an umbrella through the evening rain, I will take my wandering luggage and return home. Setting foot on the land, others feel at ease, and exceptionally friendly. This feeling, not everyone can understand.
These years, home has changed a lot; many places of memory have transformed and will never return to the landscape I knew. Only as a child climbing hills and knowing about playing while keeping an eye on my back, while the piece off from the town across the river remains unclear. In the passage of time, how many people have grown up by the now dried-up river, full of discarded garbage along the way. I do not recognize many of the people, and like many people do not know me - this is a very embarrassing and sad thing.
Mr. Autumn Prose scholars (Where’s Village) mentioned Cui Hao's famous song (Yellow Crane Tower), saying: "Departments, which, when not clear of parked her shadow? Things affection of a pulse, so that all the time wandering far away, I still look forward to talking to home... ... Forget those familiar landscapes of home: rolling yellow hills, ancient cypress trees of old huts, silently flowing rivers, there are those flowers, those dry and green grasses. A boy sitting lonely on the hillside, gazing into the distance, mused over the hill being a kind of world... ... When the sound of cicadas cried in the summer, while the boy’s heart was already flown to the distant mountains, fantasizing about their homes, to find his heart’s dream. And today, having really left those years, I discovered how precious it is to hang around home. Like a boat crossing the ocean, after thousands of waves, it seems undesirable, but then I found that only the initial harbor can host all of its dreams and lead to a heavy mix of fate, no longer difficult to carry out light sails, before heading for a heavy return."
Life is a process of endless journeying. Home, just the way trek a lonely thought. Off-site living may be difficult, and the lofty pride of youth has corroded beyond recognition, fleeting in the transformation of home space. Those previously housed old huts are long gone, even the river often missed in dreams has been polluted by years of grime, but the complex is still cherished. Childhood's hometown is not only an eternal shadow. Home with this life cannot forget family and old friends. Memories of those faces fall, those often heard Dangzhao accents, so when I face away from home in the rain, I feel warmth, comfort, giving me the courage to walk through thorny marshy lands. Home, where parents always have Shuangbin white hair lit at that intersection, as if lighting a lamp for me to go home! Home, where there are those who grew up with playmates often given a greeting! Home, deeply imprinted in my memory, immortalizes the complex. Hera, the ancient Greek philosopher Specter said: "Who lost home of refuge, not from their homeland to live in a place when the storm coming, I can only rely on their own shoulders to endure in silence, but the softest place in his heart at all reluctant to leave my home, it is a permanent light, eternal light, warm with all my lonely days, it is a pair of shoes, filled with tenderness for a long, long way." Helpless nostalgia, like a bird on a boat stranded on the beach! Helpless nostalgia, is an altar buried aged Laocu, although years of shop dust is fragrant still! Helpless nostalgia.