Summer vacation harvest

 　　Under the dim lamplight, I gazed at the cup of tea. The repeated impact of the boiling water brought out its delicate fragrance. A hint of sweetness amidst the bitterness was greedily devoured by my mouth. My blurry vision outlined hazy memories, yet the memories themselves were no longer hazy. The

　　abundance of homework made playtime scarce, the teachers' seriousness stifled laughter, and the heavy pressure shaped us—the troubles of growing up—in our dreamlike state. Opening the heavy book of memories, those scattered thoughts are perhaps recurring recollections of the past.

　　When I first arrived, a vulnerable me was targeted by the "enemy," who exploited my weaknesses and unleashed a devastating attack. That easily defeated me perished on the battlefield, but the me who "slept with the lamp burning, and dreamt of reciting poems when the bell rang" rose again. During those years, lost and confused in the darkness, I would sometimes find a patch of grass that hadn't yet withered, or sit at my desk or by the window, watching the rows of trees standing in the distance, striving to produce their last vibrant green. What kind of trees were they? I had no idea, but what did it matter? As long as they were trees, that was enough. When I gazed at them, my mind would be filled with countless thoughts, but when my eyes returned to the trees, my mood would brighten, the pressure would vanish, and I would immerse myself in my studies.

　　It seemed as if the fragrance of tea had permeated the "world," and my heart would boil with excitement.

　　My struggle conquered my troubles, conquered everything, allowing that seemingly last vibrant green to shine with the same brilliance as midsummer. "Youth doesn't know the taste of 'trouble,'" but at this turning point of "mountains and rivers," if anyone relaxes, what awaits them is "a thousand miles of swamp and ten thousand feet of thorns." Conversely, with hard work and perseverance, what awaits you is a bright future, a clear sky and lush green hills. Do you really want your troubles to turn into a wisp of smoke, entwining your soul, causing you distress and anguish? If growth is a book, then troubles are the typos hidden deep within its paragraphs; if growth is a blank sheet of paper, then troubles are the flaws on the back. These tiny things seem familiar, seemingly always bothering us. In the natural world of growth, the gentle breeze of learning has been blown away by the storms of study and pressure, relegated to the depths of memory.

　　The tea's warmth has faded from my hands, and the wisps of steam in the room have quietly disappeared. I savor the bittersweet water more carefully, tasting the troubles of growth. "Troubles linger," time marches on, experiences accumulate, and when I taste the tea again, the bitterness seems to have vanished with the warmth, with the time measured by my heart…

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