The night, strange and changeable, unpredictable, filled with a depressing and uneasy atmosphere. Accustomed to avoiding some descriptions, such as black, but finding that the more you avoid it, the harder it is to get rid of it.

The past is like smoke and elusive. Just as growing up is a heart-rending peace.

If I have to say that I still miss and worry about something, it is the beautiful wisteria. In the snow in April 2010, the noble purple met the holy white, and the picture seemed to have been stored in my mind for many years.

The moment when the steaming breath of life of the fresh and fiery wisteria was suppressed by the cold white, it was grief and despair, but it unexpectedly achieved a spectacular scene in the eyes of people.

What class were we taking at that time, and who allowed us to go out and see the scenery while the snow was flying? My memory has long been blurred, probably because of my English teacher. A chubby woman in her thirties, with a smile that can only be found on the face of a seven or eight-year-old child, and her dark onyx-like crystal eyes are slightly warm. Pick up a white-haired dog named Lele, and you can bask in happiness all the time.

Memories are often in love with beautiful things, but inadvertently they also bury deep stings. Looking at the photos in Wuyang's QQ space. Tears filled my eyes.

The sun is shining, under the wisteria trellis, full of youth, those bright smiling faces. It stung my eyes for a moment, and I carefully flipped through the photos, but I couldn't find a trace of myself. Loneliness follows you like a shadow, frozen in the shadow of the sun.

After thinking about it, it suddenly dawned on me: In fact, I have always been there, in the shadow of the sun.

reminds me of Bi Shumin's words: "Emotions are accumulated bit by bit, and I never think that hiding my true thoughts is a skill worth showing off." ”

It's just that after a long time, the natural aura has been destroyed, and whether to talk about it or not will be a boring pastime. But a stiff thorn was buried in the depths of memory.

I always think that a person who is unwilling to admit the past is often rootless, wandering like a soul that cannot reach the ground. Keep moving forward, step by step, walk quickly, walk like the wind... If you don't know it, you lose yourself.

In the tunnel of time, we are just visitors to time and space, and the flow of people is surging every day, wave after wave. Sansheng Stone says: Five hundred years of waiting can be exchanged for a look back. And those of us who can know each other, how many light years of entanglement do we have to have.

Wu Yang, when he was in junior high school, he had a nickname called Crab. Because when we were children, we often caught fish, shrimp and crabs, and even one day, caught some crabs and raised them in her house. Love travel, love singing, love to play table tennis, love to paint, idle literature and art production are involved, when I was a child, my dream was to become a lawyer, and I studied electronic information applications in college. Cheerful, gentle and generous. In middle school, I was often a good sister to girls and a good buddy to boys.

And what kind of girl am I? This is a question that deserves my lifelong reflection.

At this moment, I am safe in the night, watching my memories flow like water in my fingertips, and I don't know if I can moisturize that beautiful wisteria rose.

"I couldn't help but stop.

I have never seen such a blooming vine, only a brilliant lilac, like a waterfall, hanging down from the sky, not its beginning, nor its end. It's just a deep shade of purple, as if it is flowing, laughing, and growing. The large purple banner shone with a little silver light, like a splash of water. When I looked closely, I realized that it was the lightest part of each purple flower, teasing each other with the sun. ……”

This is Zong Pu's "Wisteria Falls" in the seventh-grade textbook. Early in the morning, the thirteen or fourteen-year-old sat under the blooming wisteria with a book in his hand and memorized this text. The chin is upturned, filled with indescribable joy. In the evening, two or three birds chirped non-stop, noisy with the superfluous enthusiasm of that age.

Many years later, however, only a simple dialogue remains:

"Is it your tablemate who asked?"

"It's not."

"Is it me?"

"It's not."

"That's another teacher's"

"Neither, it's my own problem."

"Hey, you kid••••••"

••••••

••••••

At that moment, tears burst like a. The way back to the classroom is a long road that has never been walked.

"Why are you so stupid••••••", my classmate's unintentional words woke me up.

I've spent five years thinking irritable, quiet, idle, and racking my brains. Painful, helpless, confused just want to have an answer.

However, a classroom, an exam, a seat, an unintentional word, and a patchwork of empty words have become the master key to answer all questions.

In fact, I'm just mentally retarded. A mentally retarded longs for an Einstein education, and the result is hope, then disappointment, and finally despair, until death. If time had made me know that I was mentally retarded from the beginning, then I would have done what I did, and I was trying to do something that I couldn't do, and I would probably be satisfied at the moment.

Time has healed my wounds, but it still hasn't given me an answer, leaving only rusty stains. And I have stubbornly sought and chased this answer with no end all these years.

But giving up is like cutting yourself off at the waist, the first half of your life is dead, how can you live alone in the second half of your life?

Some people say that how much pain you forget, how much you lose yourself. And people tend to be forgetful. So, the years have shaped a new you with their gentle knife, and you don't know yourself anymore.