In a deep sleep, the shadow that trudges to me in the middle of winter secretly watches-Ming

I admit, this kind of life, I am caught in the middle, spinning forward, contradictions come and go, again and again. Once, now and in the future, like luggage, it belongs to me firmly. However, it was the first to arrive. It sank to the bottom of the box, occasionally revealing a corner, and everything appeared in front of us strongly and clearly.

On the corner of the bed, I came across some photos that my mother turned out the other day. They are pictures of me learning to dance when I was a child. Some are painful expressions during training, some are strong and persistent postures, and some are moments of dancing with peers on a brilliant stage. At that time, my head was always low, my face was always raised, and I always had a pair of unbounded eyes. I don't think I should choose to give up when I am trying to hide my full loss and pain.

As far as I can remember, when I was less than 4 years old, I lied about my age, so I learned to dance with older children. I can't stand the teacher's strict requirements. I can't stretch my legs to touch my toes, and I can't catch a pole taller than me. I cried and cried all the time, staring at my mother outside the door. I pouted and lost my temper, fearing that the teacher would hit me. My mother taught me over and over again that teachers should bend their legs when they leave and insist when they come. I was thinking, even so, she didn't want me to give up. What will happen in the future? I don't know. I just cried. Usually, when I couldn't stand the intensity of practice, I fell asleep in my mother's arms in the middle of running.

Suddenly one day, I looked at myself in the mirror in front of the telephone pole, only to find that all the strangers seemed to have left, and everything here was so familiar. I am familiar with the dance steps, and I can even take the lead proudly; I understand its charm, and I can even indulge in the practice room alone. Over the years, I have become the top student in my class, and I am no longer reluctant to cry timidly. When everything has changed, there is only one thing that keeps me from saying my eternal feelings. My name is Tiny. Tiny. I like that name. She makes me so closely connected with reality. She made me forget the girl wearing a small fur coat and how she became like this. She made me cherish it. I have overcome my timidity and endured the pain of bruises on my body. The pain of ankle sprain and ligament strain is still in my heart. But that time, when I was in the sixth grade, I was excited because of the national first prize. I heard the invitation of French exchange and cried with my mother. Everything at that time, that moment was different from the past, which made me grow.

So I persisted in this way until the first day of junior high school. But I can't. Really can't. Long-distance travel on weekends will make my mother and I extremely tired. I usually do less exercise. Every time after class, I will spread out on the bed, and my legs and body will be sore. Helpless, helpless, anxious, finally put it down, put it down. As time goes by, everything is fading quietly. ...

After a long time, my mother began to say that my back was bent and my glasses hung up. As soon as I got angry, she said, "What about my previous temperament?" I've practiced for so many years. "Occasionally, I try to stand up straight and take off my glasses. But I can't keep racing against time. When I bend my head to write and look up at the blackboard, I feel more helpless.

That's all, but I'm not sentimental. The dead always leave.

It's just that this journey seems to me to be meaningful and warm forever. I am so keen on dance steps that she taught me to be strong and not to let go. Now that she is studying, let the girl with a tiger wallet and coat grow up again. I bit my lip and looked down and wrote ...

1February, my story dozed off, and the shadow that trudged to me in the middle of winter secretly watched.