Shuangcheng

However, along the way, he shuttled off the deviated track, and the scene around him was like going back in time. The further he walked, the farther away he was from this place.

There will be no more time, no more seasons, no more crying, no more laughter, no more rain, no more sunshine.

There is no morning and evening, no season, as if dissociated from the running world, forgotten in the gap of time, outside the process of time.

The heavy snow, the heavy snow that burns my sight, the heavy snow that chills my heart, the heavy snow that cuts off communication, the heavy snow that blurs and eliminates boundaries.

Every season is a season fit to die.

Spring is a season suitable for dying, like a traveler who walks out of reality during a hallucinatory sleepwalking, lost in the flowers, and a throng of bustling butterflies gather up with their colorful wings, enveloping you and obliterating you, you are not self-conscious. Knowing, unconsciously and happily falling into a long sleep, surrounded by the fluttering petals, making you like a butterfly intoxicated by the seductive and dangerous fragrance and falling into a painless sleep in the heart of the flower, the sweet and stale fragrance is as sweet as you The wonderful smell of decay is integrated into one, inseparable, death becomes the nourishment of life, and the sprout of new life penetrates your fragmented body and thrives, heading for a new death.

Summer is a season suitable for death, hot, molten, dazzling to the point of blinding the pale streets with no end, no borders, no place to stop, panting like livestock, and never stopping Walk forward until the high temperature evaporates the water in your body, and you fall down on the hot ground like a livestock, but there is no sound. The road ahead is still endless, but your road has come to an end here, and the road behind you It was also erased accordingly, and the dark green trees grew instantly, towering over the sky, and the water of the people who died in the summer transpired and merged into the flowing wind, washing away the heat and soaking the blue and white sky into a melancholy, moist, slightly cold.Heavy rain, endless rain without end, just this one is moist.The overwhelming rain interweaves a water curtain that is full of gaps but without gaps. It is like a large piece of water stagnating in the air, so many people must have died.At this time, the people in the rain curtain are like fish in a fish tank without water in the big water. In the container of heavy rain, the internal organs become transparent.The cold, dry, and pale life, from moment to moment, is longing for the colorful heavy rain in midsummer, to be rescued by memory in the rain container.The past is contained in the container of rain. When the rain falls, the container is shattered one by one, and the memory flows and spreads uncontrollably.

Autumn is a season suitable for dying. Accompanied by the deep and sad sound of the violin, fragrant dust rises from the feet, and one walks into the tomb paved with crimson, golden, and dark brown fallen leaves, and welcomes a peaceful sleep with all life. The sound of the violin is gloomy, the autumn sun shines through the dim yellow glass on the dusty wooden floor, the girl dances non-stop like a puppet in a music box, her shoulder blades are fluttering, like a swan is about to fly away and never return In the attic, there is dust floating in a ray of sunlight, and children are flipping through the old time in the wooden box.Everything is a container of memory.People are constantly turning themselves into memories, always regretting, never correcting their mistakes, always remembering, and never looking forward.

Winter is a season suitable for dying. The crackling and crackling of pine branches burning in the fireplace in the snow-covered wooden house is no longer relevant to you. Ice and snow will bury you, and the blue and yellow flowers and leaves that were born in the wrong season and were frozen to death are your burial. , the dead water is your coffin, the stagnant and flexible plant corpses and the cold breath are used as spices, and the cold will make your corpse not rot.And when the ice and snow melt in the coming year, people will find you lying peacefully on a layer of ice and snow, and the clear ice crystals as thin as cicada's wings entangle your hair and face. People will be surprised and awed, because the ice, snow and cold have already disappeared. In one season, the vulgarity and filth in your face will be removed, and you will look so pure, pure and cold.You will be mourned solemnly in this season of resurgence, for you will never wake again, and you will be mourned with petals of flowers full of sap, leaves delicate yellow and tender green, and thin branches, covering you On your body, it is like the flag of the kingdom of nature, like a martyr returning from the battlefield of life full of death's honor, like those people, enjoying another sense of supreme glory.You are so beautiful, and this beauty comes from dying at the right time, the cold also purifies your blood, the empty container of the soul, and people will remember you because of your beautiful death, no pain or no pain Occupying a corner, they may forget, but they will think of it at any time, until they themselves are killed by cold, heat, smoky wind or bleakness on a certain day in a certain season.

The cycle of the four seasons ebbs and flows, from the sprouting of spring to the vigorous and burning of autumn, and then the winter snow is the spring mud for the dead to cast the place of nirvana. In this mansion that is as thin and quiet as death, the next reincarnation of life, Reborn from the embers of the seasons.

Chengcheng once thought that in this world, as long as he came, there must be someone waiting for him.He once pretended to live an extraordinary life, and lived his life day after day, but found that he was living in vain and never returned.

Being a human is not what he wants.He didn't really want to come to this world. He couldn't help himself in life, and he couldn't help others in death. He only hoped that after death, his soul would be scattered and there would be no afterlife.

He had seen his own tombstone and had to be buried in it.

You can survive.Yi Lushen was wearing clothes for going out and on a long journey, smiling and looking at Chengcheng.As long as we all leave, as long as... I leave.

useless.Cheng Cheng took Yi Lushen's hand.I let go of Li Si, Lorraine, Wu Erfu, Wei Qinzuo... I once tried to find a pain deeper than myself, I was eager to redeem it, but in fact, no one can be redeemed, people will only be in Falling hand in hand in phony attempts to pull each other up.I won't let you go again.

We hold our fingers together until the end, let the rain extinguish the fire and extinguish the longing, let the snow blow your heart cold, blow my hair white.

Roses once bloomed in Chengcheng's garden, and he could no longer bear the barrenness.

Solemn and solemn as in a grand ceremony of offering sacrifices, a pre-rehearsed funeral, the bathtub is filled with hot water, Cheng Cheng cuts off a large number of rose corollas and throws them into the water, the petals are scalded bright red, showing the brightness like the reflection of the light.Like a severed head, a head grown to be severed.

He watched the ups and downs of York and Lancaster in the water, red red white white, the war of roses of the Plantagenet Dynasty, and finally compromised in a single rose.We will eventually melt into each other, inseparable.

Rose, silent and forbidden love.There was a sly smile on his mouth.

He held up a bouquet of pure white orange blossoms and stepped into the water, like stepping into a sacred palace.

Then he slit his own wrist.

What he wanted was not a hypocritical thin decorative scar, he cut it vertically.

He really wanted to die.

Like the night and fireworks blooming in the sky, the blood quickly diffused and spread in the water, spraying clusters of warm flowers like the sun, and the temperature of the hot water will continue this beautiful bloom as much as possible.Until the saturated color reddens every orange blossom.

There is a certain tragedy hidden in every fine thing in the world, and even the most insignificant flower has to experience some analgesia before it opens. -Oscar Wilde, "The Picture of Dorian Gray"

Beauty is painful.

Pain is because of love.

Those who acted died, but those who really wanted to die were always rescued.

Chengcheng didn't want to know who saved him, he wanted to know why he didn't come to see him after saving him.It used to be lonely, golden ember and dark, and there was no news of pomegranate red.

But he knew it wasn't Yilushen.

You are not here, not a single flower.

Even if there are roses, lilies, gypsophila and gerbera.Chengcheng thought with regret.

They are cursed alive and unforgivable in death.

How cruel God is, let Cain be despised and cast aside, but let him live forever.Chengcheng felt that they were luckier than Cain, and they could still die.

Cain killed his brother Abel, but they did nothing wrong.

We're doing something right.

We did nothing wrong.

We didn't do anything wrong, we were just a minority.A few crazy people, a few people who are talking to themselves, a few people who are struggling.

Yilu smiled softly and said to Chengcheng, we should give this world a chance to grow up and give her a little time to grow up. Although she has existed for hundreds of millions of years, she is still so young and weak. Grow strong enough, not grow enough tolerant.

However, in her long existence, a moment of getting lost is the life of many people.It is the lifetime of many generations.

Who cares what it looks like on the outside.

Cheng Cheng said to Yi Lushen.

I am the whole world, and the scars on my heart are the cracks in the world.

The author has something to say:

It is recommended to eat with secretgarden's passionata. This song once supported me to build a whole secret garden in my mind when I was in junior high school, and then watched the secret garden burn in the heavy snow. The flames reflected the heavy snow into a warm orange, a little bird Flying out of the flames, the time and space flowed where he flew, the seasons changed, the grass was withered, yellow and green, the flowers bloomed, and the forest grew wantonly. However, the place he flew over eventually turned into a piece of scorched earth.

The last strand of ashes flew farther and farther with the long and unwilling sound of the violin.