5 junior high school essays on the topic of nostalgia
Throughout the ages, spring and winter have gone, countless noisy and prosperous, quiet and dim, whether in the center of the city or in the countryside, where delicious food The unique atmosphere always permeates the night, mixing with the wind of the four seasons, evoking endless aftertaste and recalling the unique nostalgia. Below are junior high school compositions on the topic of nostalgia that I have compiled for you. You are welcome to check them out.
Junior high school essays on the topic of homesickness (selected article 1)
"How can we not eat cold food in Qingmingli for fear of being homesick?"
Ming There is a force in the dark that pulls my thoughts, forcing me to toss and turn, unable to sleep for a long time. I really want to recite a song "The River is Full of Red Fragrances, but the Scenery Is Not Much" to express my feelings at this time...
Under the chaotic moonlight, Lingye had already gathered enough energy. With the news of Xia, with hope, with full of longing, he faced the wave with all his strength, carrying with him thousands of threads of peace and harmony. The passionate heart - water chestnut, floats tremblingly on the rouge-like river. The bright moonlight reflects on the river, nourishing the water chestnut leaves. Coupled with the graceful lights in the house on the other side of the river, the river has a bit of moonlight shadow. The charm of the Qinhuai River.
A trace of insect chirping penetrated into my ears little by little, and slowly squirmed inside, adding a bit of mystery to the night.
The bird's nest looks like a proud big eagle in the moonlit night, fluttering its wings and flying towards the beauty...
In the courtyard, I lie down Grandma was sitting on her couch, admiring the unique style of the moonlit night. She completely imagined herself as a leisurely cricket in the yard, learning how to chirp happily. This was a great pleasure. Grandma came over and scratched her itch and joked. : "Hey, when did a little cricket run into the yard? With the little cricket's company, our family is so lively..." The grandfather and grandson laughed and hugged each other.
On the high-rise platforms in the city, the sleepy chatter of the old bird came from the distance like a ghost. It sounded particularly desolate. It made me think of Li Yu's lingering thoughts in a foreign country and his painful cry before his death: "Ask you how much sorrow you can have, just like a river of spring water flowing eastward!"
Now, I can only sigh in the confinement of a high-rise building: "The moon is bright in my hometown." Going to the countryside becomes Extravagant hope, what has become of that small building today? Is the swallow's nest still there? A kind of longing wells up in my heart, and I can't help but burst into tears...
How I want to go back to the small building.
How I want to enjoy the moon in leisurely time.
How I want to lie down and listen to the chirping of insects.
At the age of ten, at such a young age, I seem to have a nostalgia similar to that of literati throughout the ages! Junior high school composition with nostalgia as the topic (selected part 2)
The moonlight is like a dream, and I drink the moonlight alone, but I always feel that something is missing.
It must be the crowing of frogs in my hometown. Only the crowing of frogs can make people recall hazy memories. Only the distant call of hometown can make people feel like they are hearing the clear and clear divine voice entering the valley.
The call of hometown and the feeling of nostalgia always seem to be invisible, but they can be seen. A touch of nostalgia is the clear light before the bed in Li Bai's paintings, the uncrossable strait in Yu Guangzhong's paintings, the tree without annual rings in Xi Murong's paintings, the tree that never grows old.
The cold rain in autumn completely drove away the croaking frogs. The inside of the wall made of reinforced concrete completely cut off my connection with my hometown.
The songs of my hometown are the chirping of cicadas and frogs, and the appearance of my hometown is a vague acquaintance, as if we met in the fog and parted in the rain. When I was a child, my mother often sat beside my grandparents and rocked a bamboo chair for me, listening to the crowing of frogs. In the farmland surrounded by mountains and fields, summer nights are always lively. The sound of cicadas is always the keynote, and the wind blows the waves of wheat to make a regular sound. Someone's chicken dreamed of a weasel, and suddenly woke up, so scared that the dog also barked. On such a stage, the frog's singing voice is not popular, but it is Standing alone, like the North Star in the night sky, I soaked in the sound of one wave after another, and gradually fell asleep.
Tonight the wind brought a little bit of loneliness and a little bit of homesickness. It was too quiet here. A few whistles and a few chats were heard sparsely. It was just a pile of colorful garbage. How could it be reconciled? Are the frogs croaking in my hometown? Facing the distant hometown in my memory, I silently pray that I can go back and visit often, just like my Buddhist grandmother prayed. Speaking of grandma, her "frog-like disease" is much more serious than mine. She has an unforgettable attachment to the half of her life facing the loess. She rarely went to the city. Even if she came to visit during the holidays, it would only last for three or four days at most. She simply didn't want to stay for a minute longer. I understand her melancholy about leaving her hometown.
So similar nostalgia has become a theme in the minds of many people. I once raised a frog, and it left within a few days. Maybe it also has its own nostalgia! The topic of nostalgia is Junior High School Composition (Selected Chapter 3)
It has been three years since I left that secluded small village and moved into this lively town.
When I go home every weekend, when I am free from homework, I always like to lean in front of the window and watch the endless flow of cars on the bridge next to the tall building. An endless stream of pedestrians were hurrying on their way, and everyone noticed me, a person who was out of tune with this bustling town. Only the river slowly flowed eastward, filling my heart with sorrowful thoughts.
And the soil and people in the village all make me miss them.
In the autumn fields, the rice is fragrant, and the rice fields are like golden waves. When the breeze blows, waves are set off. When the rice harvester removes the millet, grandparents will pile up piles of straw. In that huge field, it's perfect for hide-and-seek. Sometimes you'll be hiding behind a haystack, and sometimes you'll be lying among the withered grass. Sometimes I compete with my friends in running, running from one end to the other, from the field ridge to the field ditch, each of them is like a "little mad dog", and they never tire of it. When I get tired in time, I don’t go home. I just lie on the haystack and watch the geese flying in the blue sky in a "one" shape or a "human" shape. Every time, it gives the adults a good meal. Of course, even if you are scolded, you will never complain at all. Every time I get home, it's already evening. After having a good meal happily, the family will move chairs to the big banyan tree next door, where the adults gather together to chat and drink tea. The children continued their endless games in the afternoon. And the big banyan tree, under the afterglow of the setting sun, casts a dense shade, listening quietly, looking at people kindly, and guarding this small world. And people are always so kind and enthusiastic. When someone's family has something to do, whether it's a wedding or a funeral, they have to follow a few "members" to express their happiness or displeasure and help others with cooking. No matter who has a birthday, they always like to give a few cakes to the neighbors to express their happiness and congratulations. Like my grandma, every time during the Dragon Boat Festival or Mid-Autumn Festival, she would always take out a few of them and give them to the elderly people in Qiaodong. Grandma said, "This life is hard. It took a lot of effort to raise an only son, but both his son and daughter-in-law thought he was dirty and old. They left him in this desolate old house without anyone caring about him. Take more care of him, he is a fellow villager." The friendship is also to accumulate more virtue for myself and ensure that I will have happiness in the next life."
Now living in a suite, iron doors separate people's hearts, even neighbors. Less contact and lack of warmth. Every time I think of this, I always feel filled with emotion, but people always have to move forward. Please wait for me there. One day I will return to your arms. Junior high school essays on the topic of nostalgia (selected articles 4)
What is nostalgia? Nostalgia is Fan Zhongyan's "The Qiang Guan is long and frosty covers the ground, people are sleepless, and the general's white hair and husband's tears"; nostalgia is Du Fu's "The flowers burst into tears when feeling the time, and the birds are frightened when they hate each other." For me, homesickness is the homesickness triggered by this spark.
My hometown starts with my ancestors. My great-grandfather’s home is in Queshan County, Henan, a beautiful countryside. It wasn't until my ancestors left there and came to Zibo. Queshan is also considered my hometown. Speaking of it, not many people may know about this small town. However, a nationally famous intangible cultural heritage - black iron flower - appeared here. Iron flower, as the name suggests, is to sprinkle molten iron into the sky. Although it looks simple, it is also a technical job. To talk about the origin, it can be traced back to the Spring and Autumn Period. This was a weapon at the time, but over time, it has become an art, an art that will shock you.
I have been back to Henan once before, and I also saw ironwork. That was during the Lantern Festival. I saw two people carrying a large vat of molten iron, and one of them had a willow spoon hanging on his waist. I heard from fellow villagers that this willow wooden spoon was burned by fire. Only willow wood that can withstand the fire can be made into a spoon after another seven or forty-nine days of soaking. When making iron flowers, the scene was extremely grand: a bunch of people were stopped behind a line, and the bridge was also crowded with people. The performer scoops the wooden spoon into the 1600°C molten iron and sprinkles it into the sky. In an instant, the sky was filled with flowers, like a goddess scattering flowers. Iron flowers were flying all over the sky, condensing into tiny iron particles from the sky, and some even evaporated. The formation of this phenomenon may be due to the addition of certain chemical substances. Time and time again, iron flowers are flying, people are cheering, and nostalgia arises spontaneously. I don’t know what kind of strength enabled the performer to endure the scorching heat of the molten iron and the burning of his skin. Why don't they feel pain? How can they endure it? Why are they working so hard? They are doing it for the homesickness in the wanderers' hearts! They satisfy the homesickness of the wanderers and help a young man realize his dream of returning to his hometown. Blacksmithing is a feast for the senses and a shocking performance. But I only know it as an antidote to nostalgia. Every time I think of this performance, a warm current ripples in my heart.
Perhaps, the nostalgia in this spark will stay in that moment, in this moment. Junior high school essays on the topic of nostalgia (Selected Chapter 5)
Years have passed, and the good times and good times have been in vain, but even if there are thousands of longings, who can I talk to? Turning my ears, I heard a tune of the local accent. I was tossing and turning, and I suddenly felt like I was in another world. I lost all thought of the local accent.
This is my second year in Changsha. I am already familiar with the surrounding neighborhoods, but the whole city is still as unfamiliar as the first time I came here.
Whenever I travel, I always lean against the bus window and look for the shadow of my hometown in the rows of beautiful buildings. When I stare at the lush trees in a daze and recall the stories of the past, The "Changsha dialect" ringing in my ears always brings me back to reality. It turns out that I have already left my hometown.
Changsha dialect is spoken with an upward thrust. The first breath goes straight up. The sound in the middle is always deliberately suppressed, and the turning sound is elongated and extended, full of arrogance.
The tail sound is like a hook. You catch the last sound and lift it hard. Then you suddenly release it when it reaches the end, letting it fall straight down, turning into a puff of turbid air and dissipating in the wind.
Although I live in Changsha and can roughly understand Changsha dialect, I can never learn the cadence. When people around me speak authentic Changsha dialect, there is always a feeling of rejection. The feeling enveloped me, I don't belong here, this is not my hometown.
When I was immersed in the feeling of lonely longing, I heard a familiar tone
"Let's go, we're coming soon." The familiar local accent shocked me, and suddenly Looking back, it turned out to be an old man talking on the phone. He had gray hair on his temples, a smile on his lips, and his hoarse voice spoke my hometown dialect. I looked at him, and the local accent made me feel like I was back in my old days. Under the banyan tree, the memories of getting along with my grandparents, the neighbors who always opened their doors, and the owner of the candy shop who always had a smile came to mind. When I lowered my head, I found that my eyes were filled with tears.
There is a layer of kindness in the hoarseness, and the first word and the first sound are repeated thousands of times, like thick mist, soft and gentle, like stepping over layers of green mountains, rising gently. , falling slowly, although it is not as flavorful as Wu Nong's soft words, it is indeed simple and soft.
At that moment, my soul seemed to be soothed by a gentle hand, all my thoughts turned into a gentle breeze, and all the wrinkles were smoothed out one by one.
What a wanderer in a foreign land longs for most is the unique dialect of his hometown. Why do Chinese people have a strong attachment to the word "fellow"? Because in a foreign land, the words that belong to the hometown are so precious. Just like the rain comes after a long drought, a touch of homesickness has long been comforted by the thick local accent. The cold and unfamiliar city is therefore wrapped in a thick feeling of hometown.
Different pronunciations for thousands of miles, different tunes for hundreds of miles, a familiar local accent among the crowds of people surging at street corners, and a surprised "fellow fellow" send the strongest feelings of the Chinese people, no matter where they are in the world. If you feel lonely, a word of nostalgia can warm the whole city.