Written to us who are young and energetic under the blue sky in summer:
The leaves of the sycamore tree are never whole.
The light leaked from the gaps between the leaves and fell on the ground, on the shoulders, and on the open textbook. Those light spots were broken pieces of gold, small pieces, as if someone had torn them into pieces and scattered them casually. When the wind blows, they sway, flickering on and off, like blinking eyes.
When she was a freshman in high school, Lin Zhixia sat by the window and reached out to catch the spots of light. Can't catch it. The light slipped through the fingers, leaving only a small patch of warm sunshine in the palm of my hand. She wrote in that composition: "The leaves of the sycamore tree go from tender green to dark green to withered yellow, like one summer passing through another."
Little did she know that what she wrote was not a sentence, but a prophecy.
Later, they really passed by summer after summer. The leaves of the sycamore tree turn yellow and green, and turn green and yellow again. The light spots still leaked from the gaps, falling on the empty desks and unoccupied chairs. Those gaps are still there, but the people who look up at the sky are gone.
The blue sky at that time was the sky cut into countless pieces by the branches of the sycamore tree. It's not big, it's not complete, it's not perfect. But it has its own shape—the shape of five people. They sat under the tree, raised their heads, and saw their unique sky through the gaps.
Purpose: I'm really lucky to know you.