Little Teacher's Diary

 　　Half the year has passed, and each time I go to class, my feelings are different. Last time, I was secretly pleased that students asked me questions, and I felt a great sense of accomplishment when I answered them. But now, the students are the ones leading me in conversations about life and the world around me.

　　Standing in the corridor, I watch the homeroom teacher confidently lecturing on various materials announced by the leaders, while the students below

　　seem to be just going through the motions. The study room is the most harmonious place. The top students are writing furiously with their heads down, while the struggling students are fidgeting and scratching their heads, seemingly trying to figure out problems, but they just can't seem to get anywhere, feeling anxious and frustrated. Soon, my thoughts wander off somewhere else, and I stare blankly at something. There are always one or two couples in the corner of the classroom, whispering sweet nothings and playfully teasing each other. The domineering boy makes the shy girl blush, and she frequently punches the boy with her little fists, creating quite a disharmonious scene. However, there are also some boys who, though said to be quiet and reserved, can chat all night long. They're always engrossed in their own topics, talking excitedly and without a care in the world, even if it disturbs the students next door. Soon, the surrounding students join in, and the self-study period ends. The bell rings, and all sorts of scenes unfold. Couples hold hands, best friends chase and playfully fight, boys arm in arm make plans to go somewhere… After the commotion, only the top students remain in the classroom, immersed in their studies.

　　These days are peaceful, carefree, full of youthful energy, an inexhaustible resource.

　　I love this kind of campus life, free from the competition of various jobs in society, like a harem of three thousand beauties vying for favor, full of scheming. The people in school have pure smiles and innocent hearts. This is the future I've chosen.

　　In the lamplight and the sound of oars, the sky is still cold, the earth is still cold. In my dream, the soft strains of silk and bamboo instruments play, beyond towers and mountains, beyond which the person has not returned. The person has not left, the wild geese turn their heads in formation, long since crossed the River of Forgetfulness, the one playing the zither is weeping. Willow catkins fall softly, covering my shoulders. Covering my shoulders, the flute's sound is cold, the window's shadow is broken, amidst the misty waves and the sound of oars, where is Jiangnan?

　　There is a feeling, never having parted, already already longing!