Dreams drifting down like withered leaves, scattering on endless roads; Memories are not like light smokes floating away, and clearing away numerous worries.
My dreams originate from my memories, and finally, end in my memories as well. Such dreams feel like yarns or mists. They are untouchable, even looking close to you. This is the Dream. After waking up, I find my dreams have already gone. The dreams are familiar but seem also strange. The familiar parts are memories, and the unfamiliar parts are past events. In childhood, we explored extensive knowledge, played with our friends, heard beautiful music, render our praises of the communist party, attended numerous exams, learning to paint very hard, and spared no efforts to learning art, just as expected by our parents. Past trivia lingers in my memories, sometimes just coming back a few, and sometimes just floating away. Obviously, mottled memories fade away in ripples of flashing time. Some once-familiar streets and alleyways have already been more blurred and stranger. Although somewhere still has pleasant impressions as before, but when you walk on the street, whatever to stop for gazing, or wander for looking around, it hard to identify past scenes. However, those impressions are exactly familiar, could be only found in unimpressive lanes or simple life which hinted flashing time, instead of asphalt roads and crowded shopping malls. In familiar local accents, and make me peacefully stand in the past scenes, I am lost. Yarns are white, mists are white and even my dreams are in white. Photographs play a symphony about dreams. They are music boxes which packed my memories and released them for a moment. I lived in times that full of bustling noise and flighty minds. I was lost myself. External objects control me and they also kill my awareness. However, I just try hard to survive and breath, leaving my spirits behind. After closing eyes, I could be baptized only by precious memories about the past. In the memories, I am an audience and also a heroine. When I was young, I performed fragments of exciting stories in the past, and right now it makes me understand aware of vicissitudes and emotions in my life. A poem goes like: “While young, I knew no grief I could not bear; I'd like to go up stair. I'd like to go up stair. To write new verses with a false despair. I know what grief is now that I am old; I would not have it told. I would not have it told. But only say I'm glad that autumn's cold.” I was unconscious about memories in my childhood because I once lived in such memories. In my twenty, first time I got involved in social affairs even try to stop but cannot. It is pitiful to things remain the same while the person has changed. I burst into tears before I want to speak. All events and days fade away in history and those which survive till now are called memories. Time flashes by in laughter. Those once innocent and naive faces have been hidden in the huge crowd. Wrinkles brought by flashing time have crawled on my face. Past 20 years eliminate hints of memories just like tides wash away footprints on the beach. Then it has a new world, and. the familiar scenes are hard to save. Just leaving a thinking which is familiar but untouchable.
