The dream is still
table lamp. I. Bend at your desk. Enjoy reading. Gladly. Understand.
Maybe it’s the elegant and classical charm, maybe it’s the broad-mindedness, maybe it’s the heroic spirit that soars into the sky, maybe it’s the gentle and touching tenderness, which makes me, an innocent girl, fall in love so desperately. literature. "You can't see someone when you wander into the pool, but you can only feel someone coming when you hear the song." I am the happy lotus-picking girl in Wang Changling 's works; "Be worried about the worries of the world first, and be happy after the world's joys." I am Guang Guang in Fan Zhongyan's works. Dongting smoke and waves; "There will be long winds and waves, and the clouds and sails will be hung directly to help the sea." I am Li Taibai 's determination to ride the wind and light boat; ", I am the passionate flower-loving girl written by Cao Xueqin . In the sweet rain of literature, I sucked and enjoyed to my heart's content.
I don’t know if it’s Lu Xun’s “like a sword and a gun, like a dagger”, or Bing Xin ’s pure maternal love, or Maupassant ’s ups and downs, there is an invisible force urging me to pick up the pen and write passionately on the white paper. Let your thoughts flow. The sound of turning the pages of the idiom dictionary, the sound of the pen tip scratching the paper, and the gentle chanting after an occasional good sentence, constitute the most beautiful scenery in the night. In the world of words, although I am immature, I am still so happy.
desk lamp. I. Pick up the pen. Food for thought. Gladly. See you later.
Time has changed. In front of courses and exercises, I inevitably feel the embarrassment of time. Fortunately, under the complicated study tasks, I still treasure a passionate and simple heart. Late at night, under the desk lamp, I occasionally think of my kind and long-lost words, but they are just "like a beautiful family, like a flower, like a fleeting year". The feeling of happiness was gone forever, so I held back my tears and began to learn to forget. Maybe I really forgot, and I really thought I forgot, so I just let them flow away with the water like peach blossoms, or float with the wind like catkins. In front of that big mountain, I learned to bow my head.
I didn’t expect that I would eventually come back to it. When I turned on the TV that day, a piece of eye-catching news suddenly came into view: "Chinese writer Mo Yan won the Nobel Prize for Literature." For a moment, I seemed to see my long-lost relatives, and my eyes suddenly became misty with tears. The voice on the TV was even more inspiring: "I hope that all literary workers will learn from Mo Yan's example, forge ahead with determination, work perseveringly, and write a new chapter for the cause of literature." At that moment, the word "literature" came to mind easily. The thick dust in my heart went away, and the word "literary dream" that had been buried for a long time but still shone like gold suddenly burst into my sight. It turns out the dream is still there!
Mo Yan made me see the height of words; Mo Yan made me see the infinite brilliance of Chinese culture. I know that five thousand years of Chinese culture is the crystallization of the hard work and wisdom of generations of literati. It is the most beautiful flower watered by countless predecessors with their persistent love and eternal spiritual power. I also know that history belongs to the past after all. Standing at the door of this new era, looking at this hot land in the south of the Yangtze River, I feel a force quietly rising from the bottom of my heart.
desk lamp. I. Swing the pen. Write freely. Gladly. Finally understand.
