Winter without snow is lonely.

Lonely is the child, they can only look at grandpa’s white hair, imagine the snow fluttering time, imagine running in the snow, imagine the fairy tale snow cabin, imagine they have never seen a snowman.

Lonely is the middle school student, they cannot understand ” the Yanshan snowflake is as big as a banquet”, this exaggeration comes from what kind of scene and image? In vain they admired Li Bai, walking in the white Tang dynasty and singing this white poem. The heavy snow has been preserved in poetry for thousands of years and is still floating in textbooks. But they can only face the pale wall and fill in the pale homework with pale imagination.

Lonely is the lover, in addition to the melodramatic cafe and sensational song and dance hall, they have no better place to go, they have not left two mysterious footprints in the snow field as extending in the dream, they have not created a naive idol for their first love – the snowman loved by generations of youth, they are not able to meet. Without poetic romance and foreshadowing, without the reflection and witness of snow, first love, first love that just started yesterday afternoon, quickly entered the gray and straightforward marriage process this morning.

Lonely is the poet, their language is so dry, light snow this day without a piece of snow, snow this day without a piece of snow, last year without a piece of snow, this year without a piece of snow. They blew storms in their hearts, and they made snow after snow on paper. However, beyond poetry, there is no snow. There is no poem but snow. Their so-called snow is only a memory of snow. Their so-called poems are just a memorial to the poems. A world without snow is a world without chastity and a world without poetry. Snow is dead and poetry is dead. Today’s so-called poetry is only a eulogy for poetry.

Lonely is the man walking on the gray road, can conclude that there will be no miracle on his road, there will be no adventure, he can’t meet with poetry, can’t meet with the plot of a dream he expected. Not far from him, a dog was walking. When he saw the dog, the dog saw him. The dog gave him a look and walked away uninteresting. He glanced at the dog and walked away dully. They did not see the vivid scene of winter from each other, they did not experience the baptism of thoroughly remoulded cold, they all wrapped their gray old souls in gray coats. They can’t use their pure light to illuminate each other’s eyes and hearts. They can only treat each other with roughly the same grey, in fact they are snubbing each other. They let each other down. So they hurried away and continued to measure the length of loneliness on the gray road.

Lonely is the old man who is deeply immersed in the past. He curled up in the cotton-padded jacket of memory, occasionally raised his head to look at nearby and distant places, and quickly withdrew his eyes. Apart from his white hair in the mirror, this winter has no other white color, evoking his pure memories of the past. However, the carefree snow lover he met many years ago has already died, and he can only imagine his innocent face on a cloud.

Lonely is the middle-aged man who is on his way. He started from the snowless winter many years ago, crossed many deserted beaches and streets, and walked through many bland roads and smooth roads. He does not envy the so-called winners who went straight to their destination with a pleasant journey. Such success is too boring. He was eager to wake up one morning and suddenly found that the snow had closed the mountain! The world has become a sealed letter. No one has yet opened it and will wait for him to open it. He walked in the snow, just like walking in a huge secret, and he also became a secret in the secret. How he wished he had lost his way once in the white, and had walked so long and so long, only to find that he had walked back to the starting point, from white to white again. how wonderful it would be to get lost like this? However, it has become an extravagant hope to get lost once. The starting and ending points have been determined in advance, and the procedures and steps are clear at a glance. However, he still brews clouds and fog in his heart, and finally wants to brew a snow, so that the magnificent predicament of snow blocking mountains can appear in the middle of life. In the universe sealed by snow, he is lost in purity. He lingers in purity. When he falls, he falls in purity. He was dizzy, dizzy in purity. In a word, in this magnificent predicament, the heart is willing to accept whatever happens. Therefore, he is on a long lonely and monotonous journey, looking forward to a heavy snow.

Lonely was the kite – flying man. He threw out a long line and tried to send kites to search for something in the hazy far sky. As a result, he found nothing but a large amount of dust. When the kite plummeted from the sky, he and it had nothing to say, just like an astronaut who had to make a forced landing after a failed lift – off. He slowly closed the line, winter seems to have a long clue, connected with endless suspense, in fact, suspense is your own amorous, behind the clue is empty, what also have No ..

Lonely is the pastor, he repeatedly prayed with hoarse voice heaven has refused to appear, he is increasingly difficult to find image metaphor to explain the doctrine of innocence, now there are few snowflakes falling from the sky leisurely float on the key passages of scripture, in order to strengthen the sacred appeal. The sanctity of the world is shaped by great snow, and the sanctity of the soul is shaped by great faith. Why is the world holy again when Snow White is dead? When faith dies, why does the soul return to holiness? On that gray Sunday, I walked through the streets of peddlers and garbage dumps into the gray church and happened to meet the pastor. I felt that there was not much sacred feeling left here. The only thing that made me feel sacred was the sparse white hair on the pastor’s head.

Lonely is the man who meditates. His thoughts sometimes reach the bottom of the sea and swim with fish and turtles. From time to time, he received the pale ghost and danced with the gods. However, he was unable to design a wisp of wind, to change a cloud, to make a piece of snow, to salvage the truth from a bestseller pieced together by mispronounced words and ill sentences, and to make the gaunt distant mountain appear a white light of inspiration. He was deep in despair of himself, like the sea, deep in his own bitterness, while the ship that went out to sea that night saw the depressed sea as a vast sea of hope, and thus fell into deeper loneliness and melancholy.

Lonely is that philosopher, his philosophy in addition to save the pages of idle white paper, in fact, even he himself can’t save. In this world, there is no more profound philosopher than crows. In the age of snow, crows once made ominous predictions. However, they finally had to bid farewell to human beings who misunderstood them repeatedly and turned to disappear in the night. Without the warning of the prophet, the appeal of the holy one, the voice of rectifying deviation, and the grammar of correcting, the world degenerates crazily in the ecstasy of money and happiness. The world without crows is actually a world without philosophy. Now, facing the world without philosophy and without philosophy, the philosopher suddenly remembered the classical time when crows chirped in the snow. Only snow and crows can save the world – he suddenly thought of; However, how to call back crows and how to revive Snow White? He is confused in his philosophy. Perhaps he must go through a long period of confusion before he can really enter philosophy and find the missing crow and Snow White.

Lonely is the meteorologist, he can’t forgive himself, how to look at, just watching lost two old festivals – light snow and heavy snow? He can’t forgive himself for watching the weather all his life. In addition to more and more depressing bad weather, how could he never see the great weather and the snowy weather again? Where did the magnificent weather hide?

Lonely is me, I stood on the road I had walked in my childhood, thinking back: long ago, in the white Yuan Ye, a moving shadow grew up little by little, finally saw the blue scarf, finally saw the red face with steaming heat, finally saw – the mother coming towards me from the distance of snow, like the mother coming from heaven …

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