Chapter 17 Bed is the grave of youth (2)

Bed is the grave of youth (2) Among the few articles I have still finished writing, I always repeatedly refer to the parting at the age of fifteen.That is a perfect imprint in my heart, always burning pain. I remember the ostentatious days.Curled up in the last row of the classroom by the window, watching the clouds and listening to the wind.With metal stuffed in my ears, or you love me, I love you love songs, writing desktop literature like crazy, my handwriting is all over the desk and wall, and I lost the school a lot of money for this.And pass notes with friends.Pressing the road after school, I have to walk half an hour to go home in ten minutes.In those dim days and nights, I took Jing's hand and walked on the slope of the sunset, meeting young fantasies, asking about the fast-moving time, and the sadness spread in my heart very calmly, and it filled the hill behind the school.The barren wind surrounds me.

I know that I haven't reached the age when only memories are left in my life. I look back reluctantly and look forward complacently.Only face today indifferently.How sad.When I got home and saw my mother's tired and irritable but tolerant face, I felt distressed but kept silent.I am the wheat planted by her hands, how can I bear to tell her that I really want to leave, I really don’t want to go to school anymore, I often don’t do my homework, I never read after locking the door of the study every night , I just turned off the lights, pushed open the windows, and sat on the windowsill on the seventh floor to smoke cigarettes one by one.I often don't want to go home late at night, and I can't stand the authoritarian family. I would rather commit suicide as a resistance.That spring I spent a long time under the tall trees in the garden, crying all over the ground.Many small streets and alleys in the city that I have not been to for fifteen years were stepped on by me one by one during those days.I also used to not come home from school on the worst night. The person I loved held me on his shoulders and cried silently. I would rather be scolded after returning home than leave.I love this city in the dark. I sit on the window sill and stare at the people crawling under my feet, tired and in a hurry.There are also stars like lights stretching into the dark depths.It was getting late.In those nights, I always felt like a young king in gorgeous robes, standing on the cliff singing and crying.There are many people under my feet, all of whom are my own shadows, the innocent, the kind, the evil.It's like a grand performance with a lot of money and money, and the soul is gone.

But when I presented them on paper in an obscure tone today, the record paled.The past swaying like those flowers, like time, cannot be stored.