Growth in memory

Drizzle, floating to a hint of cool; The rustling of autumn leaves sprinkled a burst of thoughts, and the golden evening overflowed the chisel of the mountain, as if it were carefully sketching a deep memory.

The stream is my childhood, with me through sadness and happiness of good friends, she has a clear smile like a stream, and the sun is generally brilliant mind. She often walked with her pictures, whether in the silent forest or under the noisy eaves, and her heart seemed to find support in the beautiful pictures of nature in her eyes. "Only when I paint can I feel grounded." 'she said.

She said nothing, but led me to a quiet place, laid out my portfolio, and stood me in front of hers. "Now the brush is in my hand, and you are the specimen of my brush. Don't move." Then, she began to unscrupulously brush, I can see her spirit with the brush flying. Around is a profusion of flowers, the sky floating light rain, accompanied by flowers, her dancing brush set off so moving.

"Look." I saw the painting in her hands, surrounded by a piece of green, behind me blooming colorful flowers, and my face smile together wrapped in the endless spring. I smiled and said, "It's beautiful. But what about the answer I want?" She waved the paintbrush and smiled: "Painting is a process of releasing one's mood. It is a feeling of beauty to let the paintbrush dance incisively and vividly on the paper. Isn't it perfect to let the things being painted feel beautiful? You see, your smile when you look at the picture is no worse than the one in the picture. I made you do it, and I'm happy and you're happy."

Suddenly I saw a white angel standing in front of me, giving me a precious gift, as pure and beautiful as she was. She smiled at me like a spring drizzle.

The next day the stream suddenly disappeared, and she left suddenly with her clear smile, without so much as saying goodbye.

When I saw her again, she was no longer cheerful, but her face was haggard and her eyes were full of sadness.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you before I left. My parents and father sent me to Shanghai to study medicine. I begged them especially to let me come back, and I will go at once." There was a deep sadness in her voice, like the cool autumn wind.

"I burned all my paintings. They were useless. But I left you one." She pulled an oil painting from a nearby suitcase and handed it to me. She had painted it for me that spring. The picture is full of wrinkles, full of the vicissitudes of time. Memories of the beauty of spring suddenly came back with incredible clarity. The reality of the brush she wielded remained. Unfortunately, the mark of sincerity has been frozen in this painting, the real soul has been living by cruel captivity, leaving only an empty shell.

I took the painting and bade her a tearful farewell. She whispered in my ear, "I love the world." It seemed to me that her whole body was bruised and bruised by the sword. The whole world became dull and colorless in her eyes. Only a pile of burning paintings and her lost youth were left to accompany her. For the first time I felt irreparable sadness, in the rustling autumn leaves.

My memories of the growth in a desolate and gray never return, but my growth has not stopped, it is still trying to pass through the grasslands full of thorns, the sea of wind and rain, to the other side of success rushed to.