I sat on the low steps, watching the old tree beside the steps carefully draw its three rings, more than three, several years of spring, summer, autumn and winter, and thousands of confused feelings. I stood up and sat down again, staring deeply, focusing on the focus that I couldn't find. Today is the time to leave, but I refuse to take the same steps as when I came. How can I have the heart to set foot on that vicissitudes of life again and wake up some passers-by who travel far away? A dream once said, "the place I can't reach is called the distance, and the restless dream is called wandering." We are destined to be a group of lonely prodigals, and we can't find them.
Does anyone remember that day? I was the last one, and few people were there when I reported to school. But I don't care. I prefer to secretly waste time in loneliness. I feel that time slips through my fingertips like quicksand and returns to the ground. On that day, the sky was dark blue, and lazy white clouds, like me, paced on the concrete pavement. The tree I saw by the roadside is still very young. Occasionally, a cool breeze blows, making the leaves rustle, then passing my ears and returning to nothingness. The next day, everyone came to school. Everyone still came so early, and I still came so late. I sat at my desk, leaning my head, looking at strange faces and looking at them in my heart. Getting to know each other is really a kind of courage.
If you leave, you need a willing heart. How I wish I could still sit at that table, staring at the faces I already know very well until I see them all in my mind. Why did you choose such a day when you left? The deep blue hanging in the sky is like yesterday, when the lazy white clouds were still sleeping. At this moment, I have to go first. The tree I am looking at has long lost its youthful appearance. I feel so sad that it didn't leave me Occasionally, a cool breeze blows, making the leaves rustle. How can I hear how sad it is, passing by my ear and whispering?
In the corner of youth, the tree is old, leaving only stumps and dead leaves. I just sat there quietly, letting the dead leaves fall on my head, sighing, "Why did the leaves die so early this year?" I raised my head and lowered my head, picked up a fallen leaf and counted the delicate texture, which was sad but somewhat cheerful. The leaves of youth are not lost years, but years accumulated into memories. There's no need to be sad. Although we left, we didn't. I looked at the leaves that fell to the ground one by one, bent down to pick them up, and picked up the dead leaves all over the floor. I want to give them to everyone who will travel far away, so that they can remember that the branches at the end of that tree once floated all over the floor, cutting off their thoughts.
I wanted to go, and then I stopped to look back. I wonder, three years later, will a teenager bend over here to pick up fallen leaves, leave a sigh, and then hear the echo of my swing at this time?
The echo said, "A dead leaf reflects the years."