我每天都在写作,像园丁种下花儿,采一垄清香。喜欢写作,还是上高中的时候,那时候的心总像无根的风,旋来旋去,不知在哪里落脚,于是稿纸便成了我的园地,文字则成了园中的芽苗,一枝一蔓,摇曳芬芳。尽管不能长成参天大树,但是对她,我如园丁一样呵护。行走在岁月的人生路上,春来秋往,那些文字便盛开在梦里。我写幸福,写烦恼,写无边的遐想,它们承载了我的理想。想着总会有那么一天,当我老了,坐在人生的边缘,转身回望,俯身捡拾,轻轻地将 I write every day, like gardeners planted flowers, adopt a ridge fragrance. Like writing, or high school, when the heart is always like a rootless wind, spin around, I do not know where to stay, so the manuscript has become my garden, the text has become a garden sprout, a branch A man, swaying fragrance. Although it can not grow into towering trees, but for her, I care as a gardener. Walking in the years of life on the road, spring to autumn, those words will be in full bloom in the dream. I write happiness, write trouble, write boundless reverie, they carry my ideal. I think there will always be one day, when I am old, sitting on the brink of life, turn around and look back, lean over and pick up, gently