The Busy Life

The busy life, a dream. The dream is cold, outside the dream.

Some people, always in the dream, live a dream life, dream nothing support life beautiful. Some people, already and dream insulation, or happy or sad, or beautiful or ugly, no relation, without dreams, life is simple.

In April, the red back, listen to the voices of flowers, affectionate cranberry, also see the flowers of the end, wither and die. Bustling into empty, past smoke, want to let oneself smile like orchid, the mind such as lotus blossom, no sorrow, no tears, only the first of the clear and pure.

The long not big child, born melancholy soul. Standing in the wind and rain, cruising in the eyes full of lonely vicissitudes, memory at the fingertips of weathered sand, either scattered lukewarm in the apical flow, I will warm face engraved heart, warm the cold.

Many years later, still want to do the regard with equanimity woman, calm, indifferent, not happy not sad not Jing is not faze, don't look for not to hope not to read. Let the thoughts away, the love will be buried, all empty, and no mention of.

When the light in a hurry, pray silently, can slow down slowly, think deeply looking back again, those old scenery, although already dark, but the warmth remaining, to moment forever.

When the water waves, tell yourself, can be again weak point, want to hang around with destruction, picturesque lingering fragrance of incense, such as poison, or bone, to close not close.

Dark spring flowers, years of node blockage in the heart, stopped breathing. Next I will meet who? In this life I can warm?
vavaboy vavaboy
22-25, M
May 18, 2012