Many things, just like the late autumn rain, do not necessarily come, say not, may quietly come.
The word "matter" is very complicated to write in regular style, but it is very simple to write in cursive style, and it is finished in one stroke. This is like many things, without any signs, said to come, said to leave, dry, no trace.
Because of this impermanence, people have a lot of ideas to change this and change that.
Because yesterday is unchangeable, we want to change tomorrow. But tomorrow is unpredictable, and as a result, we are often changed by tomorrow.
It rained today, will it rain tomorrow? No one can know, the weather forecast is only a matter of probability.
We are also living in probability, do not have complete certainty about anything, otherwise, there will be no failure, there will be no loss, there will be no disappointment.
Sitting in the evening as the sun sets in the west, the dilapidated threshold and I have often wondered one question - why is the sun rushing?
No one has ever asked that, and there has never been that answer.
What people care about in life, what they contradict, what they regret is gain and loss.
There is joy in gain and regret in loss.
Gain also has regret, loss also has joy.
Li Shutong, for example, had achieved great attainments in the world of opera and calligraphy, but why did he lament "mixed feelings of sorrow and happiness" at the end?
It cannot be said, and there is no need to explain.
The character 人 is simple, with only one stroke and one stroke.
The heart of man is complex, but why did the maker of the character be so stingy with his ink? It should be that he has long known, have more, people can not hold up, lose some, talent spirit.
WeChat, a friend said, clean up the yard, and organize the vegetable garden, and then prune the flowers, a morning of time is so wasted past.
People often sigh about wasting time.
In fact, every ray of time in life is not wasted.
The definition of "wasted" is defined by what we get or don't get, but this definition is biased or even wrong.
The sun rushes for so long and never asks for what it gets.
If we ask, we let the bugs passing by the bridge give the joke.
The time is light, easy to keep the peaceful years.
We always touch the sadness and brightness of time in the alternation of disillusionment and joy.
And now sitting in the evening of the sunset, the dilapidated threshold and I will still remember that question - why the sun to rush?
There is no answer.
There will never be an answer.
Just think about it: I, stepping over a threshold; threshold, also stepped over one of me.
