Chapter 6 queen of dreams

There are no years in dreams.Having been a minister for decades, Huang Liang is not yet familiar.After watching a game of chess, the ax in his hand died. There is no need for a fairy pillow, even the dilapidated cloth letter beside the bed has a world in a pot, which is so big that it makes me feel sympathetic-it is joyful and sad at the same time. When I read graphic novels when I was a child, I used a set of pens and inks to draw a dreamer: the head rests on the pillow, from which two strands of winding lines are drawn, like light smoke, gradually unfolding upwards into another scene.Tell me to paint dreams now, I'm afraid there is no other way.

But in theory, the two puffs of smoke should be curled into the pillow to expand. There is a plant called dream flower in my hometown: the flower is daisy-shaped, yellow and odorless. It is said that putting it next to the pillow on New Year's Eve can remind people of the dream they had for a year.I haven't tried it.What dream should I remember when I was a child: I lost a key, and I was so anxious that I thought it would be a dream, but when I woke up, it was just a dream. Some people like daylight.Knowing that you are like a horse in the gap, but competing with it, it will really become a story of chasing the sun in the west, and you will die of thirst.Needless to say, I lost a lot in places where I should have lingered for a while.I am impatient, and I often feel sorry for myself, but sometimes I am also a person who lingers, and most of them are behind dreams.

Knowing that it is night, and the scenery is as clear as day, is it because of the illumination of a corner of the garden with white flowers?Or it's -- what I pay attention to is the quiet partner in front of me staring at her silently, on the eve of her far away marriage.It's a faraway marriage from a foreign land as far away as ancient times. The long Chilan Bridge crosses the white water; where there are dense grass in the jungle, the shining wings of bees, round tombs and monuments, and the tombs of the chiefs, the water flows coldly from the green shallow grass roots... Who, on a March night , I once dreamed that a person in gray-winged clothes came to dream, did you know that it was transformed by swallows?

These two dreams have lingered in my imagination for a long time, intertwined into one dream.Later I saw a painting, "Young Martyr Girl"; the light shirt was the same color as the soft waves, the hands folded on the chest were wrapped and wrapped with belts, and the silk hair seemed to have turned into seaweed; a circle of golden rings According to her closed eyelids, it slides onto the blue waves again; it seems to have painted for me the distant imagination of the past, and my own article was two years late and I couldn't write it. Now my dream is a barren forest with all the leaves falling off.Or during the journey in Wu Gorge, the dark sky, the dark water, I don't know where to go.When I wake up, the twilight of a city is just like the world in my dream.

I put the key into the lock hole, and there was a soft sound when I turned it. I seemed to open my own prison door, hesitating, unable to explore the darkness of the room.I am willing to be a wanderer, running endlessly, and dying in the middle of the journey; that is a light throw, and there will be no gentle review. However, turn on the light and look, the four walls stand like tombs.Doesn't the person in the tomb sometimes enjoy an exquisite stone chamber? "He who does not wear a white and stiff shirt has neither talent nor energy." Who agrees with this opinion, said a Spanish essayist?I used to love to move, and whenever I was depressed, I wanted to have a new move: I longed for a tent, where I lived by water and grass, and lit a fire in the woods when night came.I don't know when everything in the world has made me tired, so I want to simplify it.

Mandeligkts not me; no, nor Woman neith-er, Prince Hamonlet, do you laugh?I am learning to love myself.We often feel disgusted with ourselves.For people, love is more of a learning, a learning that is extremely difficult and prone to failure. Maybe loneliness has turned me bad.But it taught me how to think. I try to peep and speculate about many people who love the world: Do they also sometimes feel extremely cold in their hearts? History stretches to infinity like a thread, in which we occupy almost nothing.This view is pessimistic, but maybe start from it and feel that there is something to do in the world.Because, in my interpretation, they are idealists.

Alas, "Won't you miss me with a blessed heart?" Who has confided this complaint to me, or to whom?Yes, the world becomes smaller when we only think about ourselves. I suffered from insomnia in the middle of the night, and I was familiar with many sounds at night, and recently there was a bird song added.What's wrong with it flying in the dark sky when all its kind are sleeping in the nest. I often regret that "people" can't sing at all, like reeds on the bank of a great river, facing the raging waves going east.Because of this, he envied Tiansu.In the past, someone next door listened to the two aunts and wives surrounding the model. They were so exquisite that they knocked on them the next morning.Every time this story arouses in me the feeling of a lonely night.There was also an ancient hermit who often played Go alone, using both hands to move black and white pieces to attack each other.Sometimes, alas, sometimes I really want to make an eloquent speech to myself, and when I speak, I want to cry.

At the turn of spring and summer, there are many windy and sandy days, sitting in the room, thinking that there is desert outside the four walls.When all thoughts are extinguished, I am fascinated by something from afar, as if there is still a bond between the ends of the world.The ancients said, "Thinking about you makes you old, and the years are suddenly too late." It is the northern years that make me old. Occasionally, I think about it, and then I feel more and more late. June 21