I

I am a child who is easily hurt, just too strong by disguise.

My friends said I belonged to the sun, always smiling brightly. But I know that I am a person who is used to keeping my wounds to myself.

My parents said that you should learn to be strong, to be strong to people and things. Because you are the best boy. The teachers said that you should learn to be strong, to be strong with people and things because you are the best student.

I did it. At least I did in front of my parents and friends at school. No matter what difficulties I encountered, I seemed to be able to face them with a smile on my face. It was as if there was no pain, only strength. Compliments and praise were flying. I would only laugh a little bit bitterly and then lock the door at night and cry in a whisper.

Hypocrisy, I can't go look at the strength I put on. I just want to be myself and show my true feelings at a certain moment. But, habit.

Habit makes me unconsciously make a strong gesture. Habit makes me cover everything with a smile. Habit makes me not like myself, just a glass wrapped in a walnut shell.

Hurt, I can not say to anyone. It is just a cup of bitter medicine to drink for myself.

Penmanship

I have a lot of friends, but they all never touch the soul of the interaction.

Perhaps it is the habit of pretending to be strong so that I will not be like others when sad to borrow a shoulder to cry so that I will not tell the most genuine feelings. The walnut-shell-wrapped glass wants to express it out. I began to write, wanting to let others understand.

I always like the feeling of the pen touching the paper, and always like to write the text, I hope to frame the heart in this way. But, it always felt wrong. As with friends, it is impossible to reach the deepest corner.

I am used to pretending, used to decorating the lack of feelings with the most magnificent rhetoric. I'm not sure what I'm talking about.

I

Sometimes I think I may be the most hypocritical animal. Hypocritical to be strong, hypocritical to be good, hypocritical to be perfect. Maybe everyone is hypocritical, but I don't like it.

I have to be hypocritical.

My parents had expectations, my teachers had expectations, and I had expectations for my dreams. To accomplish my dream, I need to be the maximum strong perfect excellent, so I also have to do the maximum hypocrisy.

I once read this: I just want to be a simple child who can look up and see the stars and the moon.

I am also the same.

I just want to be the purest child. Be the most real me and write the most real thing.

A different kind of gift

She is a drug-addicted woman because the sudden death of her husband made her go down this road of no return, the only thing that accompanied her was a son who just started elementary school.

The son likes model airplanes. He aspires to the endless blue sky because he believes that he can see his father's silhouette when he rides in a plane to see the blue sky. But the family's conditions did not dare to give him such a luxury, so he would collect some bottles every day and put the money from the sale into the storage box.

That day the mother had an addiction and couldn't find the money to buy drugs, so the mother smashed her son's beloved storage box, took the change, and begged on her knees for someone to give her drugs, however, the son came home and found the storage box missing and asked anxiously, "Mom, did you see my box?" The mother said angrily, "That's the money you stole! ......" The son bowed his head in tears and told his mother where all that money came from beside. The mother was so regretful that he smashed her son's dream, so she decided to go to rehab.

On the day of the separation, the mother was in tears, but she didn't dare to cry in front of her son, still smiling and saying, "Good boy, mommy will be back soon." The son's tear-stained face looked so tender, that he didn't say anything, just nodded his head in a good manner. When the ambulance left, the son finally couldn't resist and ran out of the house, crying loudly, "Mom, I will be good, I will wait for you to come back." The humble house looked so sad with the red face crying.

The son missed his mother, so every day after school he would go to rehab and try to leave a paper airplane he had folded. But the strict security of the rehab was enough to keep a child out. The son didn't give up, because he knew that if he threw the paper airplane into the high walls one day, maybe his mother would come out.

So day after day, year after year, the paper planes flew over one by one, drawing such beautiful arcs in the air, the paper planes were hanging in the window of the thoughts. Finally, the mother succeeded in quitting drugs, and the son waited for her at the door, still holding the humble paper airplane, which he gave to his mother as a gift, and the mother took a closer look at it, on which was written in one stroke: "Mom, I'll wait for you."

The mother wrapped her arms around her son and said to him, "This is the most special and precious gift I have ever received, don't hate mommy, mommy loves you."

They returned home and saw the paper airplanes hanging all over the house.

The little plane, the big gift, that gift was the son giving his mother to live under, the son telling her not to be afraid. That little gift was so different, so different that it touched everyone's heart.