My childhood was a painted picture of sunny sky and rolling green fields stretching to the horizon. It tasted of sharp berries and smelt of sour grapes. My family lived in a cabin(小木屋) in the countryside but I lived in my mother's arms. They were so delicate but strong, her red hair falling around me like a curtain separating me from the world.
Childhood was simple. The borders of my village were the furthest my troubles went and monsters only lived in the pages of books. Every day was a waking dream of running races and muddy knees. My village was archaic, dying cabins housing dying farmers with dying traditions. There weren't many children but me and the other boys; boys of butchers and sellers formed our own group.
They called us wild. I suppose we were. Trees and mountains formed our playgrounds and fights broke out as easily as sudden laughter. Liberated from the restrictions of society, we would bound into the woods,deeper and deeper until we found a lake which, with a wild yell, we would jump into all at once.
My most vivid memories from boyhood center around that lake. Water shone brightly and the sounds of our screams broke into the outcry from birds. The shock of cold water against sweating skin would wake every nerve in my body and my bare feet would hit the sinking muddy bottom. As we submerged(淹没), time would suspend, movements slowing as bubbles rose around us.
I was drowning. I was living. I was living. I was drowning.
For timelessness or a second (both felt the same), we would suspend, curl up, and then be forced back out into breathing air.
We should have known that it wouldn't last forever. Yet, even under the best circumstances, there's something so tragic about growing up: to have your perspective on the people and life around you change; to always struggle to reach a mirror only to find yourself tall enough to see your reflection one day. And find, a different person staring back out at you.
