Chapter 15 Bed is the grave of youth (1) (1)

Bed is the grave of youth (1) (1) Many, many nights like this, the dark blue sky light gradually diffused in the late spring night will quickly thicken with the very old wind.I was reading and doing problems in the dimly lit classroom. When I raised my head, my eyes would have phantoms due to fatigue, the kind of stinging images one by one, and then I buried my head and continued to do it, and there was nothing in my heart. Week after week, week after week, every day is exactly the same.I remember when I first entered high school, a tall and beautiful girl told me that the quilt is the grave of youth, followed by her wanton laughter.This sentence appeared in my mind inexplicably and has never been forgotten.

I have left home.On the weekends of this school, all the children go home with big bags and small bags. Their parents graciously opened the door of the Honda for them, took the bags and took them into the car. I packed up my things and went back to the dormitory, living quietly, so quiet that in the windy afternoon, I stood on the stands of the sports field and looked at the suburbs beyond the black railings, the thin and active boy, the signboard of the small restaurant with typos, garbage The car ran over with a bang.I often stand until it gets late and the beautiful clouds appear in the sky before I leave.But the wind has been staying there, staying together with a drop of tears that sometimes squeezed out of my painful memory in panic, swaying like a flower.

There is a book that says loneliness is that when you have something to say, no one listens, and when someone listens, you have nothing to say. In 2003, when the autumn wind was coming, I entered the second year of high school in endless confusion, liberal arts. The deskmate is a very unusual child, Qu He.He is very famous in the grade, read many books, typed his own words into beautiful print, kept the big books by his side, and had an innocent smile.There are also many liberal arts students who are very diligent and upward. I feel scared when I look at them. I have nothing left.When I started to decide to find a good meal, I gave up all the pursuit.I sacrificed a lot of freedom in exchange for another freedom. In the end, the consequences outweighed the gains and made me vulnerable. I could not write stereotyped essays in the college entrance examination that the teachers could not be stingy with marks, nor could I write the soft and delicate expressions that I expected. In the end, they were mediocre, indifferent, and sadly forgotten. Looking at them, my heart ached like a knife, and my tears could not fall for a long time.

Qu He is a reporter for an avant-garde juvenile magazine. He has stacks of music review magazines and CDs. He writes a lot of interesting things, and reads a lot of philosophy books, such as the one that no one reads. Sade's "Being and Nothingness".I feel like I have nothing, I can’t afford that concept car made in Italy, I can’t buy the movie I’m looking for, I’m standing on the street full of sensual dogs, fire trees, silver flowers, and fragrant cars, looking at the store amidst the bustling crowd at night There is a very masterpiece top in the window, the color is as gorgeous and quiet as my past years, and the tailoring is very wonderful. I looked at the price tag of 1588, and my daunting mood was like the timidity when I first faced feelings.I can't afford it, I can't get it, that's all.

Standing on the nameless sorrow of turning seventeen in two days, I feel that my tragic life is swallowed by shadows, like a part of a teenager, confused and doubted again and again. I start to be realistic. I looked at those high school seniors on the playground who looked bright and flamboyant because they didn't have to wear school uniforms. Everyone had a lonely face.I think it must be very proud to say "I'm a senior", but I'm not there yet.Although I have quietly gone to solve the math problems one by one, take notes with a pen and regular script during the lectures, and go back to the dormitory gently in the moonless night after self-study next night.Shower, go to bed, continue reading.Listen to a cello and fall asleep.Life is so simple, almost cramped and rigid.Listening to the sound of a girl playing the guitar downstairs, I can suddenly feel sad. The loud guitar is lying in the cabinet, and I clearly remember the sound of crying when the left hand rubbed against the fingerboard when changing chords, like a accusation.My mother called me on weekends, work hard, be diligent... I replied with a very gentle voice on the phone, yes, I will, mother, don't worry.But I raised my head and was stung by the gust of wind passing through the hall, and saw a black torrent rushing ahead of the end of the road of my youth, and time pulled me to run quickly here.This road is getting shorter and shorter, and I am very sad.

Qu He has many recent issues of travel magazines, holding them with a smile and naively saying where I want to go. I think reading this kind of book is more terrifying than self-torture, and Qu He also feels the same.I have just been able to feel still, dead still.I can't write things like her. I use beautiful words to describe Chinese education very gracefully, and then happily write "Our thin youth..." At the end, there are beautiful comments and equally beautiful scores.Since I was a child, I can only write "Li Bai's poems express my love for the great rivers and mountains of the motherland".I have become very calm looking at these empty and boundless things.My youth is no longer thin, it has stepped heavily on me and pulled away, leaving me tightly embracing the ideal of pain.So I would rather only care about how much balance I have on my meal card, how many tickets are in my wallet, and whether I can buy one to send text messages to SKY.Just like I said to Qu He that I love the cello so much that I was afraid that it would be desecrated if I played it badly, so I would rather not play it, Qu He said that you are self-aware.