Chapter 14 The quilt is the tomb of youth written in front

written in front When I listened to the extremely quiet cello piece Paganini:maurice gendrom at night, I heard the October wind dancing in the gap, and the extremely chilling and sad rain in the autumn night in the south. I was so warm and moved that I dared not answer the greetings from my classmates.Often at times like this, I have the illusion of time flying back and forth, and the distress makes me want to cry.I returned home during the short National Day holiday, and now I am lying on this bed that I hated so much two years ago.I clearly remember those sleepless and awake days, like a Cézanne's oil painting, dark and colorful, messy and beautiful, there is no definition, only the wound and sweetness displayed.After experiencing a lonely life, I suddenly felt how blind and absurd my previous misunderstanding of the concept of "leaving" was.The child with deep misunderstanding and resentment towards the family, the landscapes in the memory of those flickering lights, and the time that will never return, are far away from me.I began to learn to mourn them and try to rebury them once again, with a magnificent headstone to remember some of my losses.

In this extremely cold October, I saw the leaden sky outside the skylight of my study, the drifting clouds, the streaming stars, and the deep night that I was extremely familiar with.I think of the bumpy road I walked guarding them when I was fifteen.I know that my compromise today is based on those pains, which are two different forms of bravery, the characteristic restlessness: the former decides to be desperate to be desperate, and the latter decides to be desperate to care about everything.I have today.When I stood in the crowd and suddenly raised my head, I felt that my hair was blown by the wind and deeply buried my eyes, the thin clothes were cold, and my smile began to be sad and reserved... I stood in a premonition At the end of one and another unforeseen starting point.The weary long run never ends, we are all thorn birds, we only stop once in our life, and that is the moment of death.

It is said in "Youth Without Regrets" that growth is the balance of longing and nostalgia. When it tilts to the ground, what kind of voice should be used to calm those nights when they lost their eyesight?