Walking through the overpass at the West Railway Station, a young singer caught my eye. His singing was always so melancholy, and his melody was always so sad. He had long hair and sang to others. The song broke into my heart.
Every time I walk by, I put some money in his hat, and then sit next to her and listen quietly. I don’t know why, but I always feel that they all have stories, a kind of story. After going through many vicissitudes of life, I feel like I have seen through the world of mortals. Once upon a time, I also had a dream to walk on the noisy streets like them and sing my own songs.
But I didn’t have the courage like them. It was also my dream to like music, but I gave up, accepted the kidnapping of reality, walked on the single-plank bridge of study, and now live an ordinary life. , like a donkey with a cloth over its eyes, walking in circles without knowing the end, but this kind of life is meaningless.
Sometimes I really fantasized about what it would be like if I could sit on the street and sing. First, it was a joy because I embraced freedom, and then there was a worry because I The family and life behind him were left without support and no guarantee.
I was immersed in the story I weaved and listened to his sad song.
One day after he finished singing, he came to me and started chatting with me. I said that listening to his songs was very relaxing for me. I didn’t have many friends or relatives in this city, but the songs he sang could make me emotional. , ignited my homesickness.
He said that his hobby is purely a hobby. In fact, he is a singer and earns a lot of money every month. He simply likes this life of singing. He and those who make a living by singing It’s different. When I sing here, I feel like the world is looking at me and I am looking at the world.
We are all telling our own stories and singing our own songs. Everyone’s life may be just a story, but who writes the ending?