The passage of time leaves scars

Have you ever heard of that song?

It’s the song sung by Cai Chunjia, Invisible Memorial. I am always lost in her clean voice, but I can't find a reed to talk to and understand my heart.

I want to go back to that year. I want to go back to that distant summer night.

I want to go to the boundary of time passage, even if I won’t see you again tomorrow. I want to tell you too. In fact, I have never forgotten your face.

If it can be dull

High school life is as boring as boiled water. Running around the teaching building and dormitory day after day, I always feel that this should not be the life of a sixteen-year-old. I am used to calling myself a pure liberal arts student. I don’t know what kind of magic power mathematics, physics and chemistry have, but they naturally light up the red light for me every time. When the chemistry teacher talked to me, there was infinite grievance in his eyes. After all, as someone who can lower my average score by two points, unless my character breaks out, I will always be a thorn in the side of the science teacher. All right. I admit I'm used to it.

I remember when I first scored 40 points in the physics test, my strong self-esteem drove me to cry all day and night. The teachers were helpless and comforted me by saying that as long as I worked hard, my grades would improve. But then I didn’t work hard. And after practicing to the point where I only scored 30 points on the test, I could still stare at my dear physics teacher without blinking or heartbeat.

He asked, are you really not interested in physics at all?

I said, hmm.

He asked, do you really not want to study physics at all?

I said, hmm.

So the teacher compromised with me in a very strange and helpless way. He told me to buy a high school math review material and start from scratch. If you have any questions you don’t understand, you can ask him at any time.

I was stunned for a few seconds. It turns out that it is quite proud to be able to turn a competent physics teacher into my own math teacher.

Mathematics. math. Every time after class, I started to talk nervously. My deskmate came up to me several times and asked me what I was doing. I carefully whispered into her ear and said, Zhang Xiaofeng and I learned a trick. I can chant mantras. The faces of my classmates are full of admiration. What mantra are you reciting? I closed my eyes and said calmly, I like mathematics. Then she lay down on the table and never got up, laughing and yelling. You, you like math? Then who wants to greet everyone's ancestors while the teacher is handing out papers? I lowered my head silently. Yes, it's me.

I like mathematics. This life is a bit fake. There is nothing we can do about it. But knowing that the fate of liberal arts students is in its hands, I have to force myself to like it.

Physics and chemistry are all nonsense. I just like to study solid geometry in the cafeteria while cutting Mapo tofu with chopsticks, and memorize trigonometric functions while humming a tune while going to the toilet. My little life full of joy often makes my deskmates have the urge to send me to kindergarten to compete with the children for the world. This is impossible. useless.

I remember the Chinese teacher said that when the ancients were extremely sad, they would cry blood. I am a person of temperament. It is also common to feel sad about one's life experience, spring and autumn. One day when the pear blossoms were about to start raining, the onion on the left hurriedly handed over some tissues. He spoke plausibly, "Amitabha, just be a poor monk and let me accumulate virtue once more." I ignored the fake monk's deliberately added funny element, took the paper, and a huge pile of beads fell from the sky and covered the earth.

It took a while. I don't cry anymore. But suddenly I saw a small blood stain in the center of the paper I was wiping tears on. Could it be that he is anxious and angry? I said to Oniontou with eyes full of resentment, Brother Oniontou, if I leave, I will never see you again. He glared at me with disdain, "It's better to take care of the pimple on your face before you get nervous." I was stunned and grabbed a mirror. Sure enough, the blood stains on the paper were not due to my impending death. Just the pimple on my nose broke.

This works too. I'm really at home.

The teenagers here all have sad ventriloquism

Actually, I am a literary person. The kind that is hidden deep inside.

After seven years of memorizing painting portfolios, I decided to take the Academy of Fine Arts exam at the age of six but failed. I have practiced calligraphy for seven years, and now I can barely write a single stroke.

When you have nothing to do, fill in the song code and express your mood. Singing is okay. But I don’t understand music, that’s true.

Many times, I am not happy. I tried to tell many, many people that I was a sad kid. They showed disbelief at first, and then laughed as if they suddenly understood a cold joke. I don't find anything funny about this sentence, it makes me sad every time. Because I was really a lonely, vulnerable kid. This has nothing to do with idle moaning. These are not meant to prove the extent of my artistic abilities. They don't understand. I need someone who understands me.

Xia Mang is a person who understands me. During the three years of junior high school, we went to school together and went home together. We lay on the playground and watched the clouds being pulled into different shapes. We hid in the attic on the second floor and shivered, taking in the silence and loneliness of the campus after the day had passed. She grew up in a divorced family. I am different from her. I had to do it reluctantly.

So we all have unspeakable sadness. So the two of us can understand each other. Then go back to back to keep each other warm when it's cold.

Xia Mang likes to look up at the night sky religiously.

She whispered to me, how wonderful it would be if we were the North Star.

When I listened, I would always lower my head without saying a word. Step by step, he crushed the glassy moonlight that fell on the ground. I saw a gust of dusty midsummer wind blowing up her long light chestnut hair that lacked nutrients. Suddenly I felt an indescribable feeling of distress.

Later, her mother married another older man. She called me and said she was going to be homeless. Tell me not to look for her or miss her. In the end, I didn't say anything to save him. Bon voyage, I say. I know she will never be in my life again. She had planned this for a long time. I know all this.

But I firmly believe that she just walked away. She will come back. She just walked away.

Later, I occasionally returned to the junior high school and walked through the path filled with the fragrance of memories. I also look up at the stars religiously. Then look back and say softly, how wonderful it would be if we were the North Star. I thought of Xia Mang's innocent and sad face again. No one responded. There is only the sound of cold air passing through. No one can understand me anymore.

The North Star represents eternal commitment.

So, Xia Mang. You must have become a North Star.

Injured depressed patient

Sanmao is really a poor woman.

I woke up from my dreams several times. The dreams are probably all the same. A woman shouted the name "José" over and over again in front of a white cross buried in the rotting earth in a cemetery at night. She became more and more hysterical and her voice became shriller. It gave me an unreal feeling of despair. I forced myself to wake up from the dream. Covered in cold sweat. Jose is the name of Sanmao's dead husband.

My roommate told me that if you listen to Ah Sang’s songs for a long time, you will get depression. I nodded. Say so.

I said that if you read San Mao’s collection of essays for a long time, you will also get depression. They laugh. What? Are you talking about that wandering little brat Sanmao? I shook my head. So he stopped talking.

Maybe it's my fault. Sanmao has so many collections of essays, and I just chose this one. She couldn't see how bright the world was in her eyes. She couldn't see how complicated the city she walked through was. Nor can we see how free and easy she is as a wanderer. I can only read the familiar loneliness and fear in her words. The dormitory is very quiet. This kind of silence shouldn't be so solemn and deep. It was so suppressed that I just wanted to exhale without expending any energy to inhale. I'm going to go crazy if I read any more. I don't know how Sanmao insinuated her calm despair into me. I'm desperate too.

What is Sanmao’s ending? I asked the girl on the lower bunk. She has read many books, many, many. She must know.

She suddenly became excited and moved to my bedside. It was said that San Mao died of suffocation in the hospital with stockings wrapped around his neck. When she said this, her eyes sparkled with excitement. I may have seen it wrong, or I may have had an illusion.

I said "Oh". I had expected this to happen. But those loneliness and despair seem to be more logical now. I think I can continue reading this collection.

I miss Xia Mang. She will definitely like Sanmao very much. Next time, I should read Sanmao’s words while listening to Asang’s songs.

However, maybe I shouldn’t imitate other people’s sadness so deliberately.

The meaning of travel

I want to travel. As long as it allows me to leave this city.

White shirt. jeans. Canvas shoes. Big backpack. Just go and don't think about anything.

I want to be a lonely wanderer like Sanmao. I want to pretend to meet Xia Mang accidentally in some remote corner of the world. I will ask her, are you here too? She would smile and look at me.

I am indeed tired of this city. It's not prosperous, not simple, and I don't know how to define the city well. I once bought a train ticket when I was fourteen years old. The price of that ticket is almost equivalent to half a year’s living expenses. The final stop is Nanjing, thousands of miles away.

I arrived at the platform very early that day to wait for the train. At the food stall set up by a roadside hotel, I ordered a bowl of millet porridge and a tea egg. I really don't have the money to splurge on a big bowl of beef noodles with coriander floating on it. Because I still have to live. As I ate, my tears fell into the bowl. This bowl of porridge became saltier and saltier as I drank it. I just thought it was smoke that hurt my eyes. Just cry if you want. After crying, it's time to go. The boss came out of the warm room, looked at my student's dress, and asked, "Go and study."

I shook my head.

He then said, why are my parents not with me?

I nodded.

Then I couldn’t eat anymore. He grabbed his schoolbag and ran while crying. Mom is still waiting for me to come home. Right? It must be.

I won’t go to big cities, and I don’t want train tickets either. I asked the tricycle master to ride faster and faster. I want to go home quickly. Tear the ticket into pieces and throw it out the window. It was like snowflakes suddenly falling in summer. I was in a daze, but I almost never went back.

It was a long time ago. Time fades, and youth is only mottled into a thin distance like a yellowed ticket.

About dreams with nowhere to rest

My mother is very good to me.

I was shopping that day and passed by a small music box shop. The music played was the music of Castle in the Sky. I walked in and immediately saw the crystal ball. That's something I've sketched in my notebook countless times and dreamed of. Angel. Crescent moon. snowflake. It outlines my love for that era and the cold days when there was not much laughter.

I also saw the big "88" yuan written with a black marker at a glance. If you like it, buy it, Mom said.

No, I don’t like it. Let’s go. Let’s go. At that moment, I was actually a little sad.

Do you think it is expensive? my mother asked me.

I answer, no. Some dreams, once realized, change their taste.

Mom tilted her head thoughtfully and looked at me. In other words, it’s time to deliberately leave some regrets in life. I think she gets it. But then I thought, maybe she was thinking of her father.

Some dreams should be left with regrets, otherwise, time will dilute its original color.

Monthly exam. Due to poor performance, I was assigned to the top examination room. Looking down at this moment made me feel ashamed. So when my mind went blank during the chemistry exam, I wrote down a sentence on the scratch paper. It's a shame to give up climbing high now, but don't lean on the railing to be proud in the future. Admiring my own unruliness, I read my sentence over and over again. The sound seems a bit loud. The invigilator finally couldn't bear it anymore and warned me that if I make any noise again, I will stand outside. I immediately shut up and became silent. Although at this moment I really want to scold him, hand in the paper quickly, and then walk away coolly. But I remember clearly that this is the fifth floor, where poor students live. We can no longer make people laugh.

I still have some backbone. Even though I watched the paper that was equivalent to a blank piece of paper being taken away mercilessly.

This is nothing. Because I can't care less.

But I noticed her. Very strange outfit. No results