It is very warm and sad to watch "Journey to Heaven" alone in the room.
After his wife passed away, Frank found that the children were getting farther and farther away from him. He embarked on a journey alone to visit his four children, the four little guys who made him proud, painter, conductor, dancer home and successful advertising man. However, the truth was not what he thought. The children seemed to be doing well on the surface, but there were many things hidden from him. David was arrested for drug trafficking and eventually died in prison due to an overdose. Rosie was not doing well, alone. Bringing the child, reassuring the father with a series of pretense, Amy and Jeff separated, but pretending to be happy, Robert is not that good conductor, he is just the drummer in the symphony orchestra.
Frank walked around and left a picture for each of the children. It was a photo of them celebrating Christmas together one year. He wrote on it, will we spend the next Christmas together? love your dad.
When we were young, we were rebellious and never told our parents the secret of growing up. The diary was hidden in a place where my mother could never find it. When my father’s big hand fell on his butt, he was so stubborn that he couldn’t shed a tear. After eating, he would hide without saying a word. Go into your own room and just plug in your headphones and crank up the volume for any kind of chatter. We would rather chat with our own made-up characters than sit down and share something with our parents. Our relationship is more like the confrontation between the two sides in the Cold War. No one stepped back and compromised, and no one sought further reconciliation.
When we grow up, we no longer live with our parents, we have our own life, and then we have our own family, we seem to be so busy that we don’t even have time to hang up the phone, dealing with bosses, dealing with customers, Coping with the endless troubles and situations, you can't remember the place for granted. When you're not there, the father may musingly say to the mother that the family seems to be a little deserted. No matter how big the problem is, we have learned to hide it and say "everything is fine" in a hurry, because we don't want them to worry, and it's more like a perfunctory diaphragm.
Long Yingtai said that the so-called father-daughter-mother-son just means that your fate with him is that you are constantly watching his back drift away in this life and this life.
Maybe our parents are more like a city, a city that we pass by but will eventually leave, while we ourselves are more like a tree, a moving tree that cannot stop even though it has roots. We pass through many of these cities, we just tell people where we came from, where we're going next, and rush along. Until we were old and returned to that city, we suddenly found that it had been abandoned many years ago, with weeds overgrown, buildings crumbling, and the traces and secrets you left behind were taken away with time.
I found that people always forget the memories of the past in very little time, but turn around and spend many years or even a lifetime to retrieve these memories. You have seen many landscapes and encountered many other trees, but none of them can accompany you for the rest of your life, even the one in your memory.
Many times I feel that I don't know what we are looking for, but just follow the flow of people and run on the value of "I want to be awesome", to live in a big house, to drive a luxury car, to live better than others, it seems that the only way to do it is Feel happy and safe. The speed of this society is getting faster and faster, and there is nothing wrong with pursuing a better material life, but if one day my father suddenly came to the city where I live, he appeared in front of me and said he wanted to give me a surprise, and when he When asked "Are you happy" I can't help but burst into tears.
To a father, a painter's son is no different than a painter's son, although he once told you not to be a painter, but to be an artist.
2010.3.13 in the bus.
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