We all have the experience of writing essays, the essay is very familiar with it, especially the narrative essay, it is more common, narrative essay is a narrative as the main method of expression of writing, remembering things, painting scenery, things of the literary style. How to write this type of essay? The following is my help to organize the past as smoke narrative essay, welcome to read, I hope you can enjoy.
The past is like smoke in the narrative essay 1
Time rushes by, like smoke, can not hold. Time flies, those memories, has long been y remembered in my heart.
Very much like to listen to Mayday's "like smoke", that song, talking about the time flies, in the blink of an eye has been like smoke, leaving behind regrets and regrets, but has been unable to make amends.
"I sit in front of the bed, looking out the window memories full of sky. Life is a gorgeous illusion, time is a thief steals everything." Time steals everything. In a trance, I seem to have returned to that summer two years ago, into this familiar and unfamiliar campus, unfamiliar class. Time flies, and now I am about to face the middle school examination. I still remember what my elementary school classmates said when I first came to the class, "You're in this class too, finally you know someone!" And now, we have to go our separate ways, those past events have been like smoke.
"There is no such a forever, never change, embraced the beautiful are never broken again." Three years, I made a lot of friends, we walked together, experienced too many beautiful things, but those beautiful will eventually pass, the memory of the remnants of the beautiful, and they together in the heart, no longer forget. But those past events have been like smoke.
"There is no such a drop of tears, can wash away the regret, turned into a downpour landed in the street can not go back." Three years, is one thousand and ninety-five days. And classmates and friends together through these days, there have been happy, there have been helpless, there have been quarrels, there have been misunderstandings. I have never said that I am sorry. Regret, do not have the courage to say "sorry". Maybe one day, I will say "sorry" to my friends. Even if they have already forgotten. Although, the past has been like smoke.
"There is so a bookmark, stop that day, the most simple smile and the most beautiful that year." Three years of time flowed by in a hurry, so I hope that memory is a camera that can record all the happy things and shoot their best smiling faces. I remember that birthday, is my happiest day, so I want to never forget, so I want to stop the bookmark in this page of life, although the past will eventually be like smoke.
"There is no such a tomorrow, live again from scratch, let me feel again had squandered yesterday." If I were to start over again, I would not let my parents and teachers get angry, and I would not say that to my best friend, "I don't want to be friends". In my memory, the word "cut off" was so simple that it made the friendship dissolve in an instant. If I had to go through it again, I would say "I'm sorry" instead of "I'm done". Even though the friendship has disappeared, even though the past is like smoke.
"I'm sitting in front of my bed, looking at my fingertips, and it's smoke."
Time is water, is smoke, and the past is also like smoke, floating through our lives; and time like smoke to take away everything, will eventually and the past is generally like smoke drifting away.
The past is like smoke, and the memories that remain in my mind and are about to pass away, pull me back to the past.
Once upon a time I loved the sun. I like to sit in the sun, feel the sunshine, and feel the rainbow. I like to sit in the sun, feel the sunshine on my body warm and melting feeling. Looking at the blue sky, the transparent and pure blue, and then floating over a white cloud, lined with the blue sky, beautiful. I like to sit in the private courtyard, listening to the sparrows chirping, sitting on the oily green lawn, the green grass is still covered with a little dew. When the sun shines on it, it looks crystalline and transparent, like pure crystal.
When it rained, I sat under the eaves and saw the rain fall like a string of pearls. The puddles under the eaves caused a ripple. Stepping on the rain-washed green stone road, holding a bouquet of freshly washed flowers in my hand, I let the rain fall on me. I let the rain fall on my face, only to feel the coolness and freedom.
And now I was homework pressure more and more heavy, the teacher more than once repeated the junior study is the most important, it is related to our promotion and future. Now I have long lost that mentality and that freedom.
Occasionally busy, and then go to the private courtyard to sit, and then go to swing that childhood swing. Sitting on the swing slowly swinging, very slow very slow, gently holding the rope, hand and then take a childhood. The red flower, to smell whether there is still the fragrance of childhood. Listening to the sparrow's call, it is still that childhood sparrow.
In the fall, but also to go there again to sit down, see the fallen leaves helplessly in the wind spinning, and suddenly drifted down to the ground. The red maple leaves seem to be telling me that autumn and spring have the same splendor. I seem to be beginning to like the fall, especially the red maple leaves.
In a flash, I seem to understand that the past has taken away my childhood, my happiness, my freedom, but left my youth, my passion, my vigor. The memories of my childhood will remain in my mind, so I have not lost anything, on the contrary, I have gained a lot.
Let the past go with the wind, the important thing is to cherish the present happiness and joy. I'm not going to be able to do that, but I'm going to be able to do it.
Years go by, time and time like a shuttle, smoke and rain in the mountains, the rain scratched between the bamboo leaves, points of lead has been clean. The first thing you need to do is to get back to your hometown, which is where you are. Past events such as smoke, scattered as the wind, with a hint of sigh, through time and space, flooded with points of starlight, memory of the mountains, green and tender smile and the wind from the fingertips through, back to the dream of the hometown, but also with my nostalgia back to your side.
The left hand is sugar:
In that rainy town, I remember when I was in elementary school, my home was especially far from the school, and my father was happy to take me to and from school on his motorcycle every day. In the evening, when the sunlight reflects all over the sky, the warm tones shine on us, I was immensely intoxicated by the infinite beauty of the mountains, even if a piece of the green mountain is not poetry. It was the most carefree and happy time I've ever had. I remember one time when it was raining really hard, and I was the last child waiting for my father to pick me up from school. I don't remember if I was afraid, afraid of the gloomy atmosphere hanging over me, or perhaps afraid that the rain wouldn't stop and that my father wouldn't come. My teacher was waiting anxiously with me. Soon after, a tall man came into my hazy gaze. When he came closer, it was Dad! He was soaked even though he was wearing a raincoat. His hair also kept dripping rainwater, and he looked incredibly wretched, but the teacher asked if he was your dad. The moment I heard these words, my anger at my father for being "late" instantly disappeared and was replaced by sadness and guilt. I can't remember how we made it back safely through the storm and the bumpy mountain roads. It was only later that I heard from my family that my father saw the pouring rain and couldn't get his raincoat on in time to ride out in a hurry, and fell down on the road. I can't imagine what it was like, except that he showed up at a moment when I was most afraid, and I knew that he was the hero of my life.
The right hand is a knife:
Long-lasting things have a rough air, but my father remained so scanty and enduring concern for me. It's just that I no longer think he's right about anything, no longer think he's the most powerful man in the world, no longer even think he's a good father. At some point, an invisible wall was built between us. My father would always pause for several seconds outside my room where the lights were on late, wanting to say something, and then finally just leave with a sigh and walk away. Rebellion in youth is a double-edged sword, not only hurt the people who love you most, but also hurt yourself completely. In fact, when you are worried about your brain, he is also worried about your head. Get the sugar back and throw away the knife to recall the past, when dad gave you sugar for the first time, let you taste the sweetness. The first time he let you go home alone, let you learn to be brave. The first time I taught you to draw and fly a kite, letting you feel simple and happy. The first time I promised to buy you what you want when you grow up, so you can learn to strive for it. The first time he hit you because you didn't do your homework, so that you could learn to be obedient and enterprising. All these, he is using love to teach you how to grow up. Whenever you remember these those, guilt will attack your heart.
Get the sugar back and throw away the knife:
Finally, we must get the sugar back and throw away the knife, and try to sew the regret, to return his love for you. In that smoky little cottage, where there are the people who love you the most and the rare and beautiful memories. The years take away the past, and you leave the purest nostalgia, and that alone is good.
In my childhood, the family lived in a single room, in the time in the whole neighborhood stray cats and dogs in the alley free, the neighborhood should also be their presence to make the abominable 'thief' - rats cowering outside the neighborhood in a patch of grass, the time like sand. Time passes like sand, and a virus creeps up on them like the Grim Reaper. They are defenseless, one after another one by death dragged down to hell, is the God shrouded them, people also began to loathe them, with sticks to drive them away, a live life by the pain of torture, physical scars a little more, the heart of the scar day by day to become bigger, the spiritual peaks a little bit rolled down.
Respect for them due to the passage of time and disappeared in the neighborhood, half the night stars twinkling in the sky, a piece of leaves in the autumn wind under the relief of the pine in the air flying, vegetable fields in the moonlight looks extraordinarily fresh, a shadow in the pain of the struggle here, issued a final groan of pain, and finally, in the moonlight of the deacon, forever sleeping in the painful memories.
Time flies, the sun broke through the dark clouds, grass broke out of the land, birds singing in the trees, the earth is a vibrant, the virus is also in the people's efforts to turn into ashes. People were happy. But the rats, who had been cowering in the land, poked their heads out and began another career - stealing food. From then on, they were always there in the dead of night. There would always be a tabula rasa of their presence on food and sofas. People began to use all sorts of methods to keep them away, selling rat poison and rat stickers. But these things were a drop in the bucket when the rats went on a rampage, and the seedlings that were thriving in the spring were swallowed up by them. People were angry, people remembered those dogs and cats in the moment of crisis, people began to go to him them. But the streets were empty, and there were no more of them. Were they all dead? No. No, they were not dead, but they had gone into hiding out of fear of the people. Finally, by chance, people found this place, where there was a pile of branches. There was a stinking trash can. Pieces of garbage were shivering, and there were a few dead rats on the ground. They were in this inch of nowhere. But there's no one here to hurt them. Maybe this is their "paradise". People chatter about it. They backed away timidly, some of them roared loudly. People from then on all sorts of pleasing to please them, finally, they drove away the abominable rats, people also finally and they live in harmony.
These focused on the past, carved in the mind, these yesterday's past into the eyes.
These concentrated past events are engraved in the mind, these past events of yesterday are reflected in the curtain. If the past is like a dream, I fell into a deep and faraway dream.
The autumn in the south is blowing a cold and warm wind, the wind with the happy or sad memories of childhood, this memory is like the taste of coffee in the mouth, bitter and in the mouth everywhere.
I once again came to this school, just stepped into the school door, there is a cool and accompanied by a slight cool wind, the wind with sycamore leaves, a piece and a piece of floating past my eyes. The wind stopped, the sycamore trees on both sides of the road back to calm. The small sycamore trees of my childhood have now grown into large trees, towering in the red glow of autumn. I stood next to the sycamore tree, eyes stagnant look up, looking at the western sky shining red. Autumn twilight, like flowers recede from the original color, leaving only some pale cool shining red, embellished with the autumn twilight.
Come to the corridor outside the classroom, slowly toward the end of the corridor, the dust accumulated on the ground, with my footsteps in my back fluttering. The empty classroom, recorded how many unchanging memories, but because of the passage of time and covered with dust. Memories are like falling flowers, and dusk also falls. However, the fall of memory represents a hint of withering bleakness, like the disappearance of eternity, dusk is nothing more than a pool of thank you and put the water lilies, after a brief disappearance and then to a kind of unchanging posture leisurely show.
Quietly tilted his head, looking at that bit of dazzling red gradually sank in the mountains; the other side, a person waiting for the darkness, waiting for the light.
Memories are like a symphony, happy or sad, is so evocative. That still retains a trace of childish heart, inhabiting the most beautiful moments of childhood. However, those past have become memories, just like the sky clouds, only the remains of a vaguely ethereal past.
The passing of memory makes people forget a lot of childhood memories, no matter happy, or sad, there have been a number of memories, such as the wind, such as smoke, such as clouds, any of your hundred ways to trace, it has been hidden and invisible, floating without shadow. Those who have passed away like the wind blowing to the far ocean leaves, can not touch, can not see the vain sigh, so long a sigh, from the wind, is how regrettable ah.
Remaining points of light in the sky, but also with the memory disappeared into the mind. The dark night, the dawn star, the moon, the lonely shadow, these different images together to form a song played by the memories of grief, to pay homage to the past of my lost childhood. Once upon a time, I stood here smiling leisurely, listening to the wind's mournful wail, and now? The smile has lost its true veneer, but then put on a thin black shirt of hypocrisy.
The campus night will be so silent, only the wind blowing through the treetops issued by the shouts, the sound of those who strummed the mournful strings, told me that the last joy of the heart has passed away. Only those broken childhood memories are the last comfort of the soul. I searched for which star shines the brightest in the sky, and that star is the happy star of childhood. At that time, I firmly believe that the most beautiful stars will not disappear. However, after a few years, the stars have disappeared in the boundless universe, and the only thing left is the endless darkness and the lonely figure.
Memories are followed by confused smiles and sentimental tears, and every time I stand here, there is a hidden pain that engulfs me.
I toward that piece of thick twilight, that is how bleak and lonely figure, I slowly tramp, to the end of the world, to the end of the world.
If it is said that the past is like smoke, I went through a puff of smoke.
If the past is like a dream, I fell out of a dream again.
Just for, the past is not traceable ......