I wrapped up my backpack, with but some books, some highlighters, a wallet, and a hardy iron bottle. Unchained my bike, drifting through the crowd, I began my afternoon of pilgrimage away from the highschool campus when classes were dismissed, towards the place of my own.
My bike carried me through the gate that resembled the scenes of 1920s China. The smog was gradually replaced by the fume of nameless flowers scattering up the trees, on the ground, or in the pond. The roaring noise at school or on the road seemed anachronistic. What comes in to my ears were the melody of birds, dancing of water near the fountain, and the whizzing of my bike. The trails were mostly covered by foliage, themselves covered by immense shades between transparent greenness and checkered-board twilight. It’s a zen of academics, a hermitage for disturbed minds.
There I am, a sublime, 11-story building without gilded decoration. Though it is a public ...view middle of the document...
The latter part got away from my memory after the exposure, and I delved into the books accompanied by the waving twigs of the sycamore tree outside the window. I used figurative language in my notes, coded and graded with hues each bearing a specific meaning of my own, illustrated by a small picture of my illusion. Before dinner, the struggles of working-class people in late-1800 America was well repercussing on the mind of a Chinese student at the age of ruthless economic development.
The cafeteria is of 3-minute biking on the foliage street. A decent dinner can be enjoyed within ￥10. The seat is not well lighted but still spacious thanks to my precise schedule. The dish was made up of a bowl of rice with some corns, some vegetable and roast pork, emitting a smell which incented me to gobble up the last bit of rice, which is my favorite and a major part of diet in this cafeteria, well-cooked, unlike the one in my highschool. I cleaned up the table, and rode back to the building under the incipient of night.
Evening study here was a chance for self-uplifting. The classroom was as quiet as I could imagine, nothing but the flipping of book-pages and the scratching of pen were audible. Evening coolness is conveyed soothingly through the window, carrying away the heat on the tip of my pen. Previewing the lessons was the protocol; working on maths and science was a leisure; studying for the test was an adventure: all insured of privacy, free from the inquiry of competing peers. I study at my pace on contents of my preference with methods I developed, or work on my peculiar projects that may spur the parody of someone attentively watching. The productive night lasted as if forever: I found myself oblivious of time.
I wrapped up my backpack, unchained my bike, and slowly, got onto the trail. Outside the gate was an obstreperous metropolis fraught with fraud, pollution and distrust. Inside was an Eden without plagiarism, cheating or breach of individual style, standing in the midst of disturbance. I powered on my phone, omitting the messages asking where I am, dreaming of the time spent in the haven where I vaporized into.