It was that time of year again, and the wind had grown ever more bleak.
I walked alone along the path beside the classroom building, the dry chill in the wind almost suffocating. Pale frost dusted the frail, forked branches, and yellowing leaves shrank into tangled clumps, much like my mood. The trees bent into ridiculous curves under the cold wind's manipulations, like stiff hands reaching toward despair-I said nothing, feeling the chill deepen, and instinctively tried to pull my coat tighter. Then I happened to catch sight of the faint upward curve at the corners of the Confucius statue's mouth in the middle of the lawn. It seemed almost mocking.
Ah, these days of desolate haze and rampant weeds-the north wind swept across the ground, not content merely to break the pale grass; it broke my heart as well.
I stood silent for a while, thinking that sinking into such melancholy over a single failed midterm exam was rather like "forcing sorrow into verse just to write something new." So I wrestled with my facial muscles and squeezed out a smile, though it was still somewhat bitter.
But when people said the young knew nothing of sorrow, did we truly know nothing of it? Nor was it all a writer's sentimental grieving over spring and autumn. Autumn was a lovely season, clear and expansive, and it gave me an excuse to stare out the window in a daze. Yet whenever I watched falling leaves trace winding wounds through the sky, I felt dizzy. The scene drew closer in my mind in slow motion, then repeated over and over until the frames began to skip, followed by a collapse of memory. And along with those memories, my emotions burst their banks.
At times like these, I often thought of Dad.