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Diary

There are many things in life that move you, either happy or sad. I often record them all. That is my trace in my life. Just like a row of footprints left in the snow. Even though it was crooked, it came after all. Calm, smile. The poetic age. We are on campus, under the boundless dusk, leaning under the withered tree, reading books, doing exercises and memorizing words. Youth is the dream of flying, and youth is the struggle and cultivation of self-improvement. I still remember our grandiloquy words and the girl like poetry. Together with me, she lingered along the path of flowers and shadows on campus, and set sail in the ocean of poems. We read Xi Murong, Xu Zhimo, Haizi, Gu Cheng, Wang Guozhen and so on. They will also pick the dead leaves of autumn and the flowers and plants of spring together, and then put them in the diary to make bookmark. Open the diary again, that little wild flower is lying there, blooming in the diary. Pick it up, leaving only a hint of flowers. I think our youth and emotions are just like this small wild flower, which is open in life. When a generation grows old, a new generation will appear, full of passion and beautiful youth. The same diary is full of memories. There will also be light small wild flowers caught in the diary, and there will also be light flowers left in the notebook. Diary is just like the flowers left in the world. The flowers in the diary are like the blooming youth, which will never fade in the memory.

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