The wind is up

Red light. I grabbed the brake and stopped on one foot. It's a crossroads. There was a constant stream of passing cars and pedestrians. Head up, head down, head down again; The same movements and expressions, walking in a daze.

The sycamore leaves rustled in the wind. I looked up, the light was green; The foot pressed hard on the pedal, the narrow wheel drove in a daze on the asphalt road, hurry, hurry.

At breakfast, Dad said that The Times were moving on. I drink millet porridge ambiguously answer. Before going out, he tied a key string on his wrist and held half a mooncake in his hand. Perhaps squeezed in the narrow elevator corner while chewing mooncakes while tying shoelaces in my mind had the idea of "how long have I not slowed down the pace to eat a good breakfast", but the head turned to be concerned about "whether the bicycle is gas", "English words have not been memorized" or "the point of the classical Chinese has not written all the words" and so on. Now pick up the pen and think slowly, how long has it been?

For a long time, I can't remember myself. That's how I deal with myself.

Eat in a hurry, ride to school in a hurry, review and preview after a busy day's homework; In a hurry, I don't even have time to calm down and turn over a thick paper book with a little bit of text and squeeze a little bit, and learn a difficult piano music with a faster rhythm.

We're in too much of a hurry, I said. Time is scattered on the ground, the ground is stained with red blood, my hands are covered with scars; I can't restore you, I can't, I said to time. So I looked at the time a little bit fragmented, falling into a new era.

Next thing I knew, I was standing in a pastry shop with a cold loaf of bread in my hand. It's the same Saturday lunch. After all, I don't have time to go to the nearby noodle shop and wait for a bowl of noodles to arrive at a temperature I can handle.

Although I was overjoyed by the warm white noodles and the broth, which was sprinkled with scallions and bathed in golden oil.

Most of the time, I feel that my life, like a running book, insipid.

I open wechat during recess. The friends I haven't seen in a long time are talking hot. But often I really meet, accompany me from childhood crazy to big friends, often can only be across the screen; In a hurry, as if the occasional small talk is already difficult.

But the broken and desolate time can sometimes reflect the brightness of the sun. For example, my friends and I write to each other in my spare time. Weekends are very occasionally free from the bookcase to hold a few large literary works, brew a cup of hot tea, lie on the table slowly turn.

In a hurry, the world is changing, people are changing. When can you stop, slow down, and savor the simplicity of the slow pace of life?

The wind is up.For a long time, I can't remember myself. That's how I deal with myself

The leaves of the parasol tree under the orange light are still bright in the dark night.