Xia 了 Xia days

Summer.

As April and May leave quietly, as the nights get shorter and the days grow longer, they come silently.

It is the sweetness of ripe melons falling off their stems, the gentleness of warm wind blowing on your face, the coldness that melts in your mouth, and the musical sound of cicada wings fluttering.

It is the bright and bright sunshine on a sunny day, with clouds as big as cotton candy; it is the bustle of the street market, the ripe and juicy fruits on the stalls; it is the greenery beside the girl's skirt, the sweet vanilla that grows in the bustling city; it is the white shirts blown by the wind under the dazzling light.

It is the evening shrouded in sunset, the cloudy day with noisy thunderstorms, the beautiful rainbow, the agile dragonfly, the basketball that attracts all the attention, the arms waving vigorously, the smile embedded in the eyes, the diary written in the heart.

It’s summer, noisy in the hustle and bustle of cicadas.

Through the hardships of the night, the pain dormant in the heart, watching the brightness of emerging from the cocoon and turning into a butterfly, a cicada finally waited for its gorgeous season. I was inexplicably moved by this, bowing my head to the world, and thinking about it carefully, maybe this so-called noise and bustle is exactly the rare tranquility and waiting.

The summer of summer flows in the tip of his pen.

Dreams and reality meet, passion and arrogance collide. Like summer, warmth and passion, depression and restlessness are contrary to each other, but they complement each other. Looking back at the throbbing and excitement in the examination room, savoring the joy and sadness on the admission notice, the urgency and joy of running between classrooms and cafeterias, blowing the dream-chasing horn on the sports field, looking forward to the brightness and beauty in dreams, rubbing her hazy eyes in the morning, all of it was confirmed in Xia's pupils.

The summer has ended, hanging on the parting crescent moon.

We meet each other by chance; we know each other as we grow; we meet each other in pursuit of dreams. While complaining about the heavy workload, encouraging people to hang their heads; lamenting the unpredictable weather, vowing to eat all the delicious food in the world; looking forward to the future, secretly feeling sad and running away... Under the moon, you can no longer live up to what you were back then, and I can only sigh that it is ordinary.

The end of summer blooms on her pure face.

Thinking of her, in the dewy morning, the rain and dew wet the long black hair. Thinking of her, in the sunny and clear sky, the willow leaves decorate her beautiful cheeks. Thinking of her, in the rainy Hui Garden, my toes are covered with longing and care. Thinking of her, when she was eighteen or nineteen years old, her voice was full of unadorned sweetness. In the midsummer of that year, I wanted to tell you most under the moonlight. No matter how intense my thoughts were, I couldn't hide them from the clever Xia.

The summer is coming, full of bright and juicy fruits.

Maybe it’s the translucent color that attracts the eyes, maybe it’s the juice that’s sweeter than honey that entangles the taste buds, maybe it’s the fruit shop owner’s shouts that win over the ears. Perhaps the fruit takes pleasure in enjoying and giving, letting the rain soak its face; perhaps the fruit takes pride in bathing in the sun, no matter how intense the scorching sun is. The fruits of summer teach us that in the midst of hard training and suffering, we can abandon the comfort and mediocrity of the body and gain the sublimation of the soul.

It’s summer, hiding under the umbrella that got wet from the rain.

On rainy days covered with gray clouds, in the streets where you hesitate to move forward in memory, in crowded bus stops, those umbrellas that have accompanied you to see too many scenery are all memories of summer. Maybe you will be melancholy - many years later, you will pass by that roof that sheltered you from the rain, recalling the inadvertent loss, and feel the joy and regret of youth; maybe you will be excited - write the poems from the bottom of your heart, and you will be worthy of being young.

The summer of summer exists in the notes lingering in the ears.

Like the crystal clear drizzle, the soothing summer wind, the soft chirping of larvae, and the shock of muffled thunder. No matter what, there is always a voice that digs out the truth, speaks from the soul, eradicates all the weeds growing in the heart, and brings you as bright and brilliant as summer.

The end of summer is sublimated into the rebirth of cold autumn.

All sadness, or joy, is born in summer, will also end, and be reborn in autumn. Appreciate the flourishing of summer flowers, cherish the far-reaching fragrance of fallen flowers, savor the rich greenness of branches and leaves, and lament the return of fallen leaves to their roots; admire the rich fruity fragrance of bright summer, and bid farewell to the fleeting years secretly, with sadness.

There are too many unexpected surprises in summer, and there are also too many inescapable sorrows. The childhood spent in the fields with sweet rice flowers, the acoustic guitar strings played under the cherry blossom trees, the scene of barefoot laughter on the blue seaside, the moonlight seen with old friends when parting, those summers, those unforgettable past, present, and tomorrow...

In an instant. Maybe it's eternity. But at this moment, when I gently close my eyes, everything in my mind has faded away from that summer.