In the past few days, my mood has always been dull, and I have been enveloped by great sadness since I opened my eyes. It was already bright, but the sun did not come to shine on me.
Get up as usual and connect to the Bluetooth speaker first. Music is a powerful placebo, giving you a sense of security being wrapped.
As if singing were fires in the wilderness, driftwood in the river, and footprints on the ice. These are hopeful imaginings.
After a simple wash, go to the kitchen and prepare breakfast for yourself.
The toast is wrapped in egg liquid and frying in the pan, making a sizzling sound. When it is getting golden, the pan is showing a thriving scene.
I was still thinking about the two people in my dream last night, a lost friend and a lover who didn’t bother me anymore.
Whether it’s friendship or love, his attitude is always too cowardly, as if he only relies on luck to wait for others to get closer, but he never strives for it. So the unresolved feelings always appear in my dreams.
Is not disturbing really a sign of maturity?
If so, I really hope that when I wake up, I will become a relentless person, leaving at least a little trace of struggle, not like a silent snow falling in the night, and being burned up when the sun comes out in the morning, silently seeping into the dirt.
You want to nourish the earth, and when the earth is illuminated by light, your existence is like a dream.
Turn on the switch of the bean grinder, and with a buzzing sound, all thoughts are stirred by the machine. Watch the coffee beans drop little by little, and then turn into powder and flow down. The coffee powder in the container rose little by little and piled up into a hill, just like the mountains in Tar Township, barren and monotonous. But I am nourished by this mountain.
I put the coffee grounds in the portafilter, compact them vigorously, clean the edges, put them in the machine, and start preheating.
There’s nothing wrong with being addicted to coffee, it’s just one more little thing that makes you happy.
When the stomach feels a little full, it must be admitted that the mood is improving. Maybe anything that thinks it’s a big deal will be cured by three meals a day. Feeling so ashamed, I hurried into the living room and took out a book.
Compared to being healed by survival instinct, I think it is better to be healed by spiritual food.
This is a book about the winter pastures of the Kazakh people. Seeing that the sun was shining outside the window, I took out a chair and sat in the sun to read a book.
There was a clear blue sky above my head, and the snow-capped mountains not far away were extremely unreal against the blue background. Clouds swam from all directions and gathered in the sky above me. The sun climbed from my back up to my neck.
There are two trees at the gate of my yard. They look like British royal guards, wearing tall hats, guarding a wooden gate. Inside this wooden door and courtyard wall is my small world.
My world is small and compact, full of snow chrysanthemums and Gesang flowers, the walls are pictures I drew with my friends, the mottled old city.
In this small world, there are my rich emotions, the crowded people coming and going, and the ordinary sunrise and sunset.
As the sun was setting, when I closed this book, I happened to see a passage in the text:
Regardless, cold days always mean that the cold is “passing on.” We live in the normal operation of the four seasons-this cold is not a bolt from the blue, not an inexplicable disaster, not an endless darkness. It is the destiny of this planet, the rule that all things have accepted.
It turned out that I was waiting for the arrival of this cold winter, taking away the unrealistic dreams of summer, waiting for the irreversible cycle of the four seasons to push me forward, and waiting for me to return to the normal operation of everything and live in peace with this world.
