In everyone's heart, there is an artist.
Since childhood, we are all artists' geniuses. When the first day comes, we hold the whole world we can see, hear and touch in our arms with the artist's insight. Before we babbled, we had sung the most primitive and pure feelings with the artist's wonderful voice. Later, we picked up a paintbrush, danced the steps, set up sculptures, and asked 100 thousand why all artists were thinking hard.
When we grow up, we will follow the rhythm of our favorite music, read our favorite sentences aloud, cry and laugh for our favorite movies, press the shutter for our favorite scenery, wear our favorite clothes, eat our favorite food, watch our favorite exhibitions, and hold the hands of our favorite people ... We can be as cold as ice on the surface, but we are passionate inside, and we will always meet our childhood preferences in the dark and become carefree angels in our dreams. ...
That artist is lonely and needs you to talk to ta.
But many times, we take care of doers and caretakers outside, and our eyes are blinded by utilitarianism and temptation. Still the lazy bastard, poor wretch, who never thinks and wastes time in a daze. They have forgotten that there is still an artist living in their hearts. For a long time, no one cared about ta. Ta is talented and has nowhere to display. Only occasionally can I see an impulse to look back from my tired eyes.
When did we become insensitive except for TV fans who work nine to five? A flower by the roadside, a cloud in the sky, can't enter the vacant eyes, and a thank you or a smile from others can't touch the stiff heart. Creativity and appeal are artists' specialties. Can you tell ta about the days when we looked up, the road when we looked down, the people around us, and the things that a person suffered silently? ...
Finally, one day, you became an artist.
Walking on the road in the evening, I saw the old people dancing in the square dance, singing old songs happily, thinking of the white hair of various tourist attractions, seeing the photography and calligraphy and painting in the university for the elderly, and feeling that I am a real folk artist. Wandering all my life, I finally returned to the original point, found my artistic talent as a child, and dated my inner artist every day. And my writing at the moment, as well as thousands of souls who are writing, is precisely using our way to date art, express ideas, and not seek artistic life, but only seek consciousness and insight, not artistic life, but only seek flexibility and peace in life.
This love poem has only three sentences, and it is sent to the humble grocery store. I hope I will write back the next time I travel through time and space.
Listen, who is knocking at the door? Is the artist in your heart.
Come on, open the door, pick rainbows after the rain, and meet ta kinds of seven-color flowers.