Once when I was sketching, in a village, dusk spread over the sacrificial altar. A boy wearing an indigo homespun shirt stood on the stone steps. He wanted to raise his hands to perform the "Mountain Respecting" dance of the Tan tribe, but his arms swayed and the embroidered cuffs rubbed against his cheeks. He stepped to the drumbeat in the distance, his silver belt pendant jingled, his feet always fell out of rhythm, and he staggered to hold on to the wooden pillars beside the stage. His movements stumbled when he turned around, but he wiped away the sweat, bit his lip and faced the dusk, adjusting his posture over and over again. Although the boy's movements were immature and unskilled. But it still fascinated him. It was unforgettable for a long time, but I didn't know that the gears of fate began to turn.
Intention: growth