However, all this is just a memory.
Later, I learned that Qinghuai's parents decided to send her to study abroad, so she never had to come back. Until the last day of senior three, I still received her postcard, with nothing but a distant postmark and a clear address. Knowing how proud I am of my happiness, I feel warm and grateful: I have an address and a distant person to send you my thoughts on the road.
It is with such happiness that I ended my eighteen-year-old summer with the most shameless satisfaction.
The journey is over. In other words, it's going to start again. Like Tsinghua, I finally embarked on a long journey with a backpack on my back. He was probably waiting for an international flight in the terminal late at night.
I will cherish the scenery I once saw in my youth in my memory-the birch trees on campus are yellow and green, rustling outside the bright window, and the broken leaves full of enamel reflect the carefree youth sunshine. The golden sunshine was cut into regular shapes by the window lattice of the classroom and scattered on the white wall covered with standard answers and college entrance examination information. The cicada's cry was blown higher and higher by the hot air, and the white shirt was stirred uneasily by the fan with roaring test papers and pages. The bike stopped quietly under the teaching building and the cushion was very hot. The naive dragonfly stopped on the windowsill in ignorance and soon left without interest.
Just like Qinghuai will cherish in her memory the scenery she once saw when she was young-the opera in Lingxi, the long night train, the beautiful forest in Xiaoxing 'anling, the open land and bright starlight in Xinjiang, the vast grassland in Inner Mongolia and countless picturesque mountains and rivers.
From the summer when I was eighteen, in the later time, I looked through the postcards sent to me by Qinghuai one by one. And every time I prepare to send postcards there, I find that I can't find anyone to send them on the road. Even if there is such a person, I don't know her address. After all, she is a migratory bird.
So I can only write to myself again and again, telling myself that I have walked through in my memory.
I wrote this when I was 15 and 16 years old. Now it seems to be a cumbersome and embarrassing pen. But I put it here without any decoration, just as a mirror or as a souvenir.
Theme: Bedding is the grave of youth.
When I was listening to the extremely quiet cello Paganini: Maurice Janderon at night, I heard the wind flying in October, the extremely cold and sad rain in the autumn night in the south, and the phone at hand rang, with greetings from my junior high school classmates, warm and moved. I often have an illusion that time has returned to the cycle at this time, which makes me want to cry. I came home from a short National Day holiday and now I'm lying in this bed that I hated very much two years ago. I clearly remember those sleepless days, just like an oil painting by Cezanne, dark and colorful, messy and beautiful, without definition, only showing trauma and sweetness. After a lonely life, I suddenly feel how blind and absurd my misunderstanding of the concept of "leaving" was. The child who deeply misunderstood and resented his family, the scenery in which the lights were clearly extinguished in his memories, and the time when he could never come back, all left me. I began to learn to mourn them, and tried to rebury them and build a gorgeous tombstone to commemorate some of my losses.
In this extremely cold October, I saw the leaden sky outside the sky window of my study, falling clouds, flowing stars, and the heavy night I used to know very well. I remember how bumpy I was when I was fifteen, and I kept letting them come. I know that my compromise today is based on those two different forms of pain, courage and anxiety peculiar to adolescence: the former decided to be desperate and desperate, and the latter decided to be desperate and take care of everything. I need it today. When I was standing in an endless stream of people, I suddenly looked up and felt my hair blown by the wind and deeply buried in my eyes. My thin clothes are cold, and my smile begins to become sad and subtle ... I stand at a predictable end and an unpredictable starting point. Tired long-distance running is endless. We are all thorn birds, and we only stop once in our lives. It was the moment of death.
"No regrets in youth" says that growth is the balance of longing and nostalgia. When it falls, what kind of sound should be used to comfort those nights when they lose their eyes?
-Write it in the front.
( 1)
On many, many such nights, the dark blue sky that gradually spreads in the late spring night will quickly become thicker with the very old wind. I read books and do problems in the classroom with white lights. When I look up, my eyes will have a phantom because of fatigue, that kind of stinging image, and then I will bury my head and continue to do it. There is nothing in my heart.
Cycle after cycle, cycle after cycle, every day is exactly the same. I remember when I first entered high school, a tall and beautiful girl told me that the bed was the grave of youth, followed by her unbridled laughter. This sentence inexplicably appeared in my mind and has never been forgotten.
I have left home. On weekends in this school, all the children go home with big bags and small bags. Their parents politely open the doors of Honda cars for them and take them to the car with their bags.
I packed my things and went back to the dormitory. I live in peace. On a windy afternoon, I stood in the stands of the sports ground and looked at the suburbs outside the black railing. Thin and active boys, small restaurants with typos on their signs, and garbage trucks came running with a bang. I often stand until it is getting late and there are beautiful clouds in the sky before I leave. The wind stayed there all the time, accompanied me, and sometimes a tear squeezed out by my painful memories swayed like a flower.
There is a book that says that loneliness is when you have something to say, no one listens, and when someone listens, you have nothing to say.
In 2003, the autumn wind was just right, and I entered the second year of high school and liberal arts in endless confusion.
The deskmate is a very complicated child, Qu He. I am famous in my grade. I read a lot of books, typed my own words beautifully and put them beside me with a naive smile. There are many liberal arts students, who are diligent and progressive, and I feel scared when I look at them.
I have nothing left. When I first decided to find a good meal, I gave up all pursuit. I sacrificed a lot of freedom for another kind of freedom, and in the end it was not worth the loss, which made me vulnerable. I can't write the stereotyped writing for the college entrance examination that teachers can spare, and I can't write the soft and delicate words I expected. In the end, I was forgotten in a plain and sad way. I looked at them, my heart ached, and my tears could not fall for a long time.
Qu He is a reporter of Pioneer Youth Magazine. He writes big and interesting articles and reads big and big philosophical books, such as Thade's Being and Nothingness, without being read. I feel like I have nothing. I can't afford an Italian concept car, and I can't afford the movie "Night Fall" I want to find. I stood on the street where BMW cars were flowing, and looked at a masterpiece coat in the shop window among the crowds at night. The colors are gorgeous and quiet, just like my past years, and the cutting is extremely beautiful. I think the price 1588. I can't afford it, I can't get it, that's all.
Standing on the nameless sadness that I will turn seventeen in two days, I feel that my miserable life is swallowed up by the shadow. Just like some teenagers, I am confused and suspicious again and again.
I'm starting to be realistic.
I looked at the children in grade three on the playground, because they didn't have to wear school uniforms, and they looked bright and beautifully dressed. Everyone is a lonely face. I want to say "I am a senior three" and I must be very proud, but I'm not. Although I have quietly solved one math problem after another, I still take notes in block letters with a pen in class, and then I go back to the dormitory gently with the moonless night after the self-study the next night. Take a bath, go to bed and continue reading. Listen to the cello and then go to bed. Life is so simple, almost cramped and rigid. Listening to the sound of a girl playing guitar downstairs, I can suddenly feel sad. The guitar with a loud timbre was lying in the cupboard, and I clearly remember the crying caused by the friction between my left hand and my fingerboard when I changed chords, like complaining. Mom calls me on weekends, so work hard and be diligent ... I will reply with a gentle voice on the other end of the phone. I will, mom. Don't worry. But when I looked up, I was stabbed by the high wind that passed through the hall. I saw a black torrent surging ahead of time at the end of my youth road. Time is pulling me to run fast at this end. The road is getting shorter and shorter, and I am very sad.
Qu He has many recent travel magazines, holding them with a smile and naively saying where I am going. I think reading this kind of book is more terrible than self-abuse, and Qu He feels the same way. I was just able to calm down and die. I can't stubbornly write like her, cut China's education to pieces with beautiful words, and then happily write "Our thin youth ..." Finally, I wrote beautifully and scored beautifully. Since I was a child, I can only write "Li Bai's poems and songs express my love for the great rivers and mountains of the motherland". Looking at these empty things, I am calm. My youth is no longer thin, it tramples heavily on me and pulls away, leaving me with a painful ideal. So I'd rather just care about the balance on the meal card and the money in my wallet. I want to buy a Shenzhouxing to send messages to the sky. Just like I told Qu He that I loved the cello too much, and I was afraid that I could not play it well and profane it, so Qu He said that you had self-knowledge.
Because we all walk so easily in the shadow of others' aura, we are silly and noisy, and we firmly believe that this is our own advantage and value. And I indifferently insist on trying my best to describe the hostility between ideal and reality in pale language, as well as the long-standing indifference and hope, rejection and compromise in my heart. Really, really, again. Youth, my lovely youth.
Qu He wrote a long article about the rationality and sensibility of the Renaissance in the Middle Ages, which permeated all the philosophical thoughts he could know and expressed humanistic care. He showed it to me when he was studying in the evening. This is a well-written composition that can be scored. I feel sad when I read it, but I feel sorry for myself. Because I have repeatedly told myself to look at the reality, college entrance examination, grades and rankings, the remaining landslides and the end of the world have nothing to do with me, so my surging thoughts suddenly disappeared into unbearable loneliness, leaving me with only an empty shell, a ball that gradually shrinks and cannot be rolled. For a child, this is the greatest tragedy, the real universal tragedy. Personal tragedy is just a vague sentence to history, and time flies. As a nobody with no ambition in this magnificent tragedy of human desire, we have reason to doubt the history composed of records and words, but there is nothing we can do after all.
(2)
Among the few things I have accomplished, I always keep talking about my leaving at the age of fifteen. That is a perfect brand in my heart, burning forever.
I remember the days when I used to make public. Curled up in the last row of the classroom by the window, watching the clouds day by day and listening to the wind. There is metal in my ears, but you still love me. I love your love songs and write desktop literature crazily. My handwriting is all over the desk wall, which costs the school a lot of money. Send text messages to friends. Walk by the road after school. It takes half an hour to walk home in ten minutes. In those dark days and nights, I walked hand in hand with Jing on the slope of the sunset, met young fantasies and asked about the rapidly passing time. My heart spread sadly and filled the hills behind the school. The barren wind surrounded me.
I know I'm not old enough to have only memories in my life. I don't want to look back and look forward smugly. Can only face today coldly. How pathetic this is. When I got home, I looked at my mother's tired and irritable but tolerant face, distressed but silent. I am the wheat planted by her own hands. How can I have the heart to tell her that I really want to leave? I really don't want to go to school again. I often do not do my homework. After locking the library door every night, I never read again. I turned off the light, opened the window and sat on the windowsill on the seventh floor, smoking one by one. I often don't want to go home late at night I can't stand arbitrary families. I'd rather kill myself as a resistance. That spring I stayed under the big tree in the garden for a long time and cried all over the floor. Many small streets and alleys in the city that I haven't been to for fifteen years were trampled by me during those days. On the worst night, I never came home from school. My beloved put me on his shoulder and cried silently. I would rather be scolded than leave when I got home. I love this dark city. I sat on the windowsill, staring at the people crawling under my feet, tired and in a hurry. There are lights like stars that extend into the depths of darkness. It is getting late. In those nights, I always felt like a young king, wearing a gorgeous robe and standing on the cliff crying. There are many people at the foot, all of whom are their own shadows, naive, silent, kind and sinful. Like a grand performance, the soul is gone.
But when I showed them on paper in an obscure tone today, the records became pale and powerless. Those swaying flowers, like time, can't be hoarded.
(3)
I miss you and everything. The drizzle in the morning, the warm sunshine in the suburbs in May, the last steps in the northwest corner of the teaching building, your gentle face after I woke up, and your name I shouted on the seventh floor windowsill are all gone. These colorful pictures constitute the whole background of my failed first love. In the touch of years, they are like ancient murals. The hesitation you wrote on the beach was swept away by the tide, but it was engraved in my heart like bronze. In those years when I was young and dangerous, I always hesitated and wanted to express my endless desire for your care. You are so naive and persistent that you are helpless, but you are so kind that you always come out to accompany me to the streets as soon as I call you, and I still can't bear to go home until the early morning when you are so sleepy that you call me home.
Do you still remember the holiday in May? One afternoon, we went to the suburbs on a whim, and walked all the way. The smell of rural soil was a little dry, even mixed with the smell of livestock. The wind is not strong, the tall branches are shaking loudly, and the local dogs and boys are running wildly and the dust is flying. Tears of the sun filled our shoulders and faces. We walked so far, so far, to the end of the city, and saw large tracts of abandoned warehouses and factories, as well as dilapidated houses. This scene is a bit like a short pause after the climax of European movies has passed. The sun rises and sets, and we stand by the river combing our happy mood and tired smiles. Satisfied.
When I went back, I fell behind you and dragged my feet. The road to happiness is always so short, can we stick to it?
When I went home to take a shower, I saw my red face, and my heart was sweet and carefree, but at the same time there was no lack of sadness. After all, I can only lie in my memory on such a beautiful afternoon.
Do you still remember the holiday after graduation, when we went to the virgin forest with few tourists? The stream is clear and cheerful as lovers' tears, the tigers and apes in the mountains sing birds, and the morning mist wraps the skin. When we climbed to the top of the mountain, we saw the rich green, which spread far away layer by layer, and was occasionally interrupted by a farmhouse, a white tower and a line of flying herons, so the green was smart and I could reach it.