Paterson is an ordinary small city and an ordinary person, and he and the city wake up in the morning, work during the day, and walk in the evening. Like most people, Patterson had a small house, a steady job, a wife and a French bulldog, and life was flat, like flowing water in a creek that didn't make waves.
Patterson loves to write poetry, and a small notebook full of his poems, or his life, finds inspiration in a matchbox and scribbles a few lines before driving, his wife persuades him. After many times, he asked him to publish these poems, and finally, Patterson finally reluctantly agreed to go to the publishing house on the weekend.
I think Patterson's reluctance to publish his poems is because he is not confident. He feels from the bottom of his heart that he is a bus driver. He is just the most ordinary person living in a small city. He never dared to hope that one day he would be a bus driver. The poems can be sold in bookstores and displayed on the bookcases of thousands of households. He was afraid that after sending these poems to the publishing house, he would never hear from him or receive a letter of return, which would undoubtedly be a huge and devastating blow to him. Patterson goes to a small bar every night, where the walls are covered with famous people who have lived in the city. I wonder if Patterson has thought that maybe one day he will be famous for his poetry, and he will be posted on this wall by the bar owner on the same night.
In contrast, Patterson's wife is the exact opposite of Patterson. She is someone who wants to change, who wants to explore. She will learn to play and sing because she likes a black and white guitar, and she will learn to sing because she likes a black and white guitar. She was overjoyed that her little cake was selling well. She painted and painted at home and gave full play to her creativity. It may be precisely because of this character that she was deeply attracted to Patterson.
At the weekend, Patterson and his wife, who had intended to publish the poem, came home to find that the book had been torn to shreds by their dog. Patterson didn't get angry, but he didn't fall asleep. He was one with the only difference. Destroyed at night. That morning, he met a Japanese beside the waterfall, who also happened to love poetry. Patterson didn't tell him he was a poet. Before the Japanese left, he gave Patterson a new book, Tell him: Sometimes blank pages represent more possibilities. After the Japanese left, Patterson picked up the pen, and his voice reading poetry was heard off-screen.
Of course we are a group of ordinary people, day and night, repeating what we do most of the time, but we are always different from each other, Patterson loves poetry, you love flowers, he loves travel, I love movies, Everyone has some sustenance in their own life, so as to measure their own value in their own little love and dreams. Maybe a stream may not necessarily flow to the sea, but even if it flows into the land, it is after all. a journey.
Those loves, those dreams, those sustenances, all are our own spiritual corners.
(If you are merciful and want to give me a "useful", please leave your shadow in the comment area so that I know who you are?)
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