I am in Beijing, a city where countless people flock to.
In September this year, I boarded a train bound for Beijing and it took me a full twenty hours. Sitting in a crowded and dirty carriage, breathing in the strong smell of sweat and cigarette smoke that is unique to summer, looking out the window at the tree-lined houses whizzing by and the sometimes endless yellow soil, I don't know what all this is for.
This is a junior college. In Beijing, where land is at a premium, it can actually squeeze into a central area like Chaoyang District. The afternoon before the school started, I dragged my suitcase out of the subway station, got off the overpass and turned around to see a one-meter-long and half-meter-wide sign hanging on a telephone pole on the side of the road, with the full name of the school written on it. Looking to the right, the end of the path is the school gate.
Dizziness, confusion, fear.
These are the only three words that can express my mood at that time.
The school is very small, about 80 acres, and it doesn't even look like a university. The gray building shows its age. The library teaching building and laboratory building are close together, and the plastic surface of the playground track has been turned over. It takes five minutes to walk around the entire school.
The moment the dream was shattered, the grievances that had been suppressed for three months burst out.