Spring goes and spring comes and dies again. The composition is 800 words, regardless of the subject matter.

It's very cold, and the trees outside the window can't stand the cold and shrink in the corner. At night, whenever the cold wind blows, I can hear their low sobs, as if mourning the cold winter, and as if asking myself: When will winter end?

I stick my head out of the sea of test papers, always staring at a pot of gardenias by the window. In winter, she put away her proud flowers and bones early, languidly withered herself in a flowerpot, just waiting for people to water her elegant body regularly. To tell the truth, sometimes I envy gardenia, even envy it. Even in warm spring and summer, it only needs to open its own buds and give people a smiling face. In this winter, I have to endure the cold and drowsiness. Even at eleven o'clock or two o'clock, I will be meticulously immersed in exercises and X and Y all over the sky. In fact, there is nothing but unchanging textbooks and reference books in my impression. Both the TV and the computer are too far away from me, about half the world. In fact, they are only separated from me by a room.

In contrast, gardenia is used for recuperation in winter. She sleeps in a flowerpot every day, as long as she doesn't die. She has nothing to worry about. She just needs to fall asleep, fall asleep. ...

The final exam is coming, and I can smell the gunpowder in the school, which makes people have to calm down and review. I hate exams. Although I got good grades, I never liked it once, even once.

Now, the exam has long lost its original meaning. Now exams have become a "competitive platform" for top students. I naturally like quiet and hate competition. I don't think failure can ignite my passion and fighting spirit, so I can only put a few ice cubes in the cooled hot pot.

I don't understand why some people are full of great interest in war, and I don't like their hypocrisy. Before the exam, they cheered for the sky, as if they were having a hard time, but during the exam, they wrote one by one, and then they finished. As soon as the results came out, they had the cheek to say how badly they did in the exam and that they would be beaten when they got home, but they were actually laughing.

I don't understand why they are so interested in this red number, as if it wrote the future of your life.

I no longer pay attention to them, still indulge in my own life, still distracted on the gardenia by the window, still playing wildly on the physical education class. I will spend this winter in my own way, and I will never stick to formalism.

The dead branches and leaves on the trees outside the window will fall again, even if they are wrapped in heavy cotton-padded clothes, they will still feel cold. The wind is blowing hard in the air, just like sweeping the floor, and the needles are hard under the cold light.

Look at the students' expressions.