After many years, time will give us forgiveness

When I was young, my favorite thing to do was to catch them before cicadas shed their skins and put them into cans and bottles. Under the lights of summer nights, when adults were asleep, I silently watched the insects in the bottles, how they lay quietly on the smooth glass and began the most important transformation in their lives.

This metamorphosis often begins in their backs. That long slit, when it opened, I could almost feel the tearing pain between their skin and their muscle. Their whole bodies shook and struggled violently in their shells, but there was no sound. I could hear nothing but the ticking of an old-fashioned clock on the wall, and the long thin legs of cicadas clawing at the smooth walls of the bottle, trying, but in vain, to climb upwards. The gap on the back of that spine is getting bigger and bigger, and the cicada is like a newborn baby, slowly exposing its fresh and tender skin in the silent night. But I can never wait to see how it emerges from its transparent shell like a lovely, soft lychee with its skin removed. I always fell asleep on the table, and when I woke up, the cicada had turned black all over and had wings that could fly into the sky.

Therefore, I can only imagine that cicada in the yellow light, is how to peel off the green shell, for the dream of flying in the sun, struggling, wriggling, tearing. There should be labor pains, distinctly tugging at every nerve. I also doubt that they will have tears, there will be fear and hesitation, not knowing whether they can have the flight they want to have, whether there will be bright songs. I have also wondered if a cicada, like me when I was young, was always afraid that adults would find out the secret of its desire to run away from home, so that it came out of the house and returned of its own free will, would it stay in the dark earth forever, until it was old?

But such fears never come true. Each cicada, after 10 years of darkness underground, climbs out of the ground and climbs to a tall sycamore or poplar tree the next day. In order to dream of flying in less than three months, it takes off its old clothes and calmly abandons the outer shell that bound its body on the trunk.

If cicadas have a thinking mind, they should understand that the price of flying is actually expensive. But every summer, they still come and go, never look back, just like every child who does not want to grow up, will eventually be urged by time, from the sight of wandering, embarrassed panic, to look calm and carefree. And such growth, which suffered pain, scars left, outsiders can never understand the pain, all turned into sand, life embedded in the shell body, and then through the years, into a bright pearl.

Now my younger brother after 90, after 80, I have experienced all the confusion and confusion. He was at an underwhelmed vocational college, learning a skill that even the teachers who taught it thought would be out of a job after graduation. From the countryside to the city, he was ostracized by the fashionably dressed classmates around him, and his post-80s teachers, who couldn't find a way out themselves, couldn't even remember his name. He went out, was followed by thieves, robbed the mobile phone, in order to be able to buy a new one, he scrimped and saved, hard squeezed from the living fees given by his parents, but in a month later, due to excessive diet and unfortunately fell ill, only to go to the hospital spent hundreds. In his unheated dorm room in the South, he cried to me about the cold eyes of city people and the loneliness of having no friends, but he brought me no comfort, because I, too, was anxious about my work and papers.

In fact, I have always believed that when he stepped out of the house to face the strife, the noise and the clamor alone, he had a flexible strength, which could let him break free from the eyes, the ridicule and the blows of outsiders, like a weak grass, can pass through the cold stone, even the indestructible skull. He may in order to obtain a true feeling, a bowl of porridge rice, and abandon the precious face of the past. Maybe after that, he still got nothing. But such a price, like cicada's escape, must be met ruthlessly unless he lives in a dark shell.

I know that he is still unable to forgive my coldness and ruthlessness. Time and again he wished for comfort and help from me, but I ignored it and pretended to know nothing about his pain. But I also know that when he graduated from that unknown college, hit a wall in the society several times, suffered the cold reception, and then finally found a job suitable for his own, he will understand my past indifference, but to let him, in the journey from campus to society, can get used to the temperature of this common world is always unsatisfactory.

This habit is painful cicada. The price of never being able to escape.

At that time, I have begun to love beauty, will be in the fat school uniform inside, wear floral shirts, hot days, the school uniform zipper, as low as possible to pull down, revealing that a peng a loose open flowers. Some boys look over, will shy down, fingers gently twisted a corner of the school uniform, it seems, want to from inside, twisted out a trace of blazing courage.

At that time is really a simple wayward little girl, 15 or 16 years old, always seize all can not wear uniforms of the opportunity, indulge their own enchanting bloom. Teachers on the platform, see who deliberately will wear uniforms messy, will straight face, say a girl to self-respect. And we got together after class and talked about the teacher's gossip and bad words, until we were satisfied and the small grievances of being criticized finally disappeared, and we returned to the group of laughing and joking and loving beauty in the past.

In art class, the teacher put a pot of jasmine on the table and asked us to trace it. The girl next to the table called Mo, but secretly will a petal soft fragrant jasmine, painted on the inside of his school uniform. When she finished, she looked over her shoulder and was delighted to share it with me. Just when I glanced at the blooming jasmine, and had not had time to be surprised by Mo's bold brushwork, the teacher came over with a dignified face, and then let me and Mo stand on the platform.

In fear and Mo stood shoulder to shoulder to the podium, waiting for the teacher's cynicism, and the students goodwill but dazzling sympathy. The teacher coldly let Mo give everyone "show" her art work, know that this is intentional teasing, but Mo is proud to smile at the teacher, and then open the school uniform side, like a bird, spread out the other side. Under an uproar, I carefully along the teacher's angry line of sight to see the past, this was surprised to find that her right inside the school uniform, unexpectedly full of big flowers gorgeous camellia. And when she turned her back and turned the inside of her collar open, it was a long green ivy!

The teacher's face, like spilled a bottle of oil paint, red green blue purple, mixed together. The colors fell off as his stiff facial muscles shook and rustled. Under the stage, someone began to shout loudly and sing, like a group of pigeons that had been bound for too long, huffing and huffing, they knocked open the cage door and flew to the high pure blue sky.

I still clearly remember, this hand-painted revolution guided by Mo, it is in our conservative closed town, like a rainbow after the rain, publicity dazzling, hanging in the horizon, so that everyone is eager to approach it, pick a piece, put into the backpack behind.

We hand-draw our favorite flowers and plants, birds, fairy tales, music, stars, sayings. We also create abstract beautiful and mysterious patterns, which contain love and hate, in addition to the owner of the school uniform, no one can solve. I once expressed my secret love for another boy implicitly and perfectly with only a green leaf drifting in the water. And Mo, the frustration of a test failure, with a bared little person, to vent. Boys, for their part, paint their uniforms full of adoring stars, racing drivers, or a girl's beautiful eyes, and a line of initials for the English letter of love.

Teachers were finally unable to stop the trend of hand-painting, allowing us to paint from the inside out, covering every inch of the otherwise monotonous school uniform. In the past, the PE teacher who always forced us to wear school uniforms was overjoyed, because we finally did not need him to tell us to wear school uniforms and run around the playground. Those uniforms painted with youth symbols, such as hunting flags, accompany us, passionately, running into the wind.

A few years later, I left the campus and came to Beijing, at the gate of a middle school, I saw those boys and girls who came in and out, like me when I was young, wearing fat uniforms, with careless expressions on their faces, and all the popular things, do not have to read newspapers and Internet, just glance at their uniforms collar, cuffs, shoulder and back, you can get a peek.

And I, standing in the streets of Beijing, saw the code of youth, shining on the school uniform, like my young time has passed away, so bright, painful, and sad and helpless. It was at that moment that I saw the reason why I walked all the way, but I always refused to stop and look back at that period of time.

When studying in college, people gradually lose the simplicity of middle school, no longer carefully obey the rules in everything, no longer advocate authority, for many things, often have a lucky mind to escape. And in this run, feel exciting, it seems, escape the teacher's scold, escape the guard's inspection, is a thing of great value. Although, many times, we do not know that we are the silly black bear in the elementary school textbook, picking up the sesame, but losing the watermelon.

Little story. - T.x. Little Tendo. Say. God. Don