Dad's slap

Author: None
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2006-07-01
Features: Children Grown Outside Paradise
This spring, I feel so restless. I curl up in my own corner, watching their stories one by one, playing the role of a listener, quietly listening. When I can no longer hold back, I cry silently. It’s an outlet, and I write my stories in my diary and blog. Some say that in the real world, people are real, and souls are fake. In the online world, people are fake, and souls are real. I can find a corner in the internet where no one knows me, and write about my own things, about many people’s things, about things I don’t want to reveal. I don’t need too much attention from others, and I’d rather be an invisible person, curling up in a mossy corner, letting darkness corrode my body. But in the end, I break free from the shackles and soar proudly.
We are in our youth, standing at the crossroads of pain, shouting, confused, and at a loss. No one can help us, only ourselves. In youth, I want to write my heart with a pen. I am not a woman of great talent, nor am I a genius. I am just an ordinary woman, the most ordinary kind. Everyone has a story, just that we depict it in different ways. Please don’t laugh at me, nor doubt it. What does a child know? But dear, perhaps some children are still screaming and shouting in the crowd, while others have already moved forward, looking at their future, past, pain, and sadness. Please forgive our maturity. Though we may not have stories we can’t look back on, it doesn’t mean we don’t feel pain or sadness. We are not just puppets who only know how to be happy. Adults, please understand that children also have sorrow.
The magnolia flowers only bloomed for a week before leaving in haste. When the tea flowers bloom, they are like fire, but when they wither, it’s hard to imagine how such vibrant flowers can fade so miserably. God watches over all things in the world from the clouds, just as an observer, silently watching, not indulging them because they are his most beloved children. This is God’s punishment for his most beloved humans.
We part and reunite in haste, looking at each other with puzzled gazes. There is no passionate hug or wild laughter as imagined, just those puzzled gazes as we pass each other. Back home, I cry out loud, praying every day to see you again. But when we meet, we are so strangers.
Every day, I open the music box, take out the violin, and practice. The violin is covered in a thick layer of white powder, and I don’t want to wipe it off, afraid of seeing its original state. The sound of the violin is always filled with memories. I’ve always been dreaming, dreaming of hearing the lingering sound of the violin, standing on the railway tracks, a train suddenly rushing toward me. I run, trying to escape, but the train keeps chasing me. Finally, I grow tired, and the train crushes my body. Then, it’s all black, and faces appear before me, all laughing. I’m scared, terrified, screaming, and then I wake up. The same dream keeps tormenting me. During that time, I was shrouded in gloom.
Fortunately, spring has come. I love them smiling and calling my name: YoYo, YoYo, YoYo. The people around me always come and go. Those who leave, leave, and those who come will also leave. In the end, only I stand alone, singing alone in loneliness. ZhiZhi, YaYa, XiaoZhi. My three most beloved women. I’m not good at telling stories, but real people and real things. As for YaoYao, the woman in my heart, she carries the shadows of many people—the ones who love me and those who love me. YaoYao is both in the realm of illusion and reality.
This is a great confession, just hoping I can remember my youth, hoping someone can understand the love and stories between children. Music is a gentle confession, an unfinished story forever. A CD holds a hidden pain, and a CD supports the souls of many. In the CD, people find themselves, find a quiet place for their souls.
We are sorrowful children, but we are also children. Too much pressure weighs on us, making it hard to breathe. Academics, the immense love of our parents, the emotions of our friends, the budding thoughts of youth—everything makes us at our age feel lost. But we must continue, we must make our own choices, never regretting them. We are all good children. Good children are obedient, good children don’t cry.
The author of this article is from: Class 3, Grade 2007, Chengdu Waidong Zhonghe Middle School, Sichuan Province.