Chapter 7 eternal talk

The New Year's Eve is approaching. After cleaning every inch of the house, my mother stood at the door of my study and looked inside.Looking at the cardboard boxes and paper bags that have been piled up in the corner for many years, she said: "It's time to clean it up? It's been many years." I buried my head in front of the pile of books or the computer screen, pretending to be very busy, and said, " All right, all right, I'll do it when I'm free."Mother shook her head and walked away, knowing that this year was hopeless again.I lifted my head and turned to the dusty heaps, where the letters from friends from my long journeys were in the boxes.

During the half year in the United States and the whole year in Hong Kong, almost every day, there will be a letter in the mailbox, full of thoughts and confessions.I bring them back with me when I pack them, like a memory safe.They are my collection, my treasure, how can I "clear them out"? Gibran wrote in his love letter: "At the moment of life's emaciation, when my heart is occupied by disappointment, I read your letter... Your letter reminds me of the real me, makes me examine myself, and keeps me away from you. Ugly and filthy, avoid the depravity of life." That's really why I have to keep these letters, I don't want to lose my true self.

I have loved writing letters since I was a girl. Every day after school, I have to write long letters to my classmates. The letters talk about reading, life trivia, and every detail and sentimentality. After reading my letter, my classmates, Sometimes I reply, sometimes I don't, and I don't care at all, I just need to talk.Later, I often talked about this paragraph when analyzing my creative experience, and thought it was the enlightenment and training of my writing. "Speaking of which, I'm also very important." My friend Rarity suddenly realized this once, and couldn't help but feel complacent, and then said seriously, "At that time, I was actually worried about you, and I thought You are so sensitive, you might commit suicide." Rarity said that when she moved, she was always reluctant to throw away my letters, one stroke at a time, so the 17-year-old girl who was so beautiful had disappeared from this world long ago, but she still lived in her letter box.

Rarity and I have always been concerned about different things, and our life sentiments are also very different. Thinking of the letter from me in her letter box, I feel extra warm. Whether it is a lover or a friend, when you like someone, you want to write to him, as if you leave a part of yourself with him through writing.Every word written is so specific and true that it can be pondered over and over again, which creates strength.I am far away from my lover, but I believe that if I seal it with a kiss, he will feel the love; I have not seen my friend for a long time, but I believe that with my understanding and comfort, he will be able to recover from the blow of losing love restore courage.

The last thing I like to do is "clean up" letters.When I was young, I always corresponded with a boy. He was not good at words, but he wrote touching letters.Later, in order to let myself stop thinking about him, I decided to burn those letters, bought a drum of tinfoil, and spent the whole afternoon.It was very windy on the attic, and silvery paper ash floated from the bucket, and the fire and smoke made me cough and cry.Gibran's love letter reads: "Everyone needs a refuge. The refuge of my soul is a jungle, and I live in it with an understanding of your deepest emotions." So I understood that that day In the afternoon I set fire to what turned out to be a jungle, my refuge.

Many of the emotions sealed in the cardboard boxes have changed, and I can't bear to open them.Reading the letters in the past years, I can't help but feel sad. The person who used to listen attentively no longer exists, and even the person who wrote the letter is nowhere to be found. Only this letter is still affectionate, continuous, and eternal. confide.