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Those youthful days, when we used to watch the rain of petals
beneath the cherry blossom tree; those carefree years, when we would frolic
beneath the osmanthus tree; those melancholic moments, when we felt sorrowful
under the winter sweet tree at the age of fourteen or fifteen. They are long
gone with the passage of time. Three years of middle school, like water slipping
through clenched hands, slowly vanished, unable to be stopped, grasped, or
retained.
Once upon a time, I, like any innocent child, loved to gaze at the sky, whether
it was the sky adorned with drifting clouds or the pitch-black, silent night
sky. I loved it deeply, hopelessly. I would watch the clouds during the day and
count the stars at night. Now, I am particularly fond of the azure sky, those
clusters of pure white, ethereal clouds. When the wind blows, they disperse in
every direction, unrestrained and free.
I used to adore the vibrancy of spring, the coolness of summer, the melancholy
of autumn, and the coldness of winter. I loved the quiet blooming of each flower
in every season, the gentle melodies of singing insects, the silent withering of
falling leaves, and the graceful dance of snowflakes. Now, when I am alone in
the darkness of the night, unable to see my own hand in front of me, I
understand my own shallow sorrow, insignificance, and humbleness. Loneliness and
solitude fill my entire being, entwining tightly and stirring up the scars that
have long scabbed over. Consequently, all the pain turns into bitter tears,
quietly streaming down my face, ultimately transforming into a shallow sigh.
A few scattered stars intermittently appear and disappear in the night sky,
while faint moonlight drifts aimlessly on the water's surface. Standing within
the river of time, I listen attentively, and a delightful voice reaches me from
afar. A faint glimmer in the lonely night, a moment of tranquility in the
bustling city—accompanied my growth, who is it? Whose gentle voice whispers in
my ear, telling me, "No matter how painful or difficult, keep flying." Who is
it? Swiftly typing a row of words on the keyboard, "Just be like the floating
clouds, just be like the floating clouds."
In that lush green space within the school campus during springtime, a little
girl raises her head and gazes at the sky, as if she has already become deeply
immersed in it, listening repeatedly to the clouds sing the praises of spring. |
