Fantasy and words go hand in hand when you are young

When I was a kid, I had a dream that was related to dancing. It doesn't have to be what or who to be, it's just dancing. My childhood dream was to dance, dance all the time, preferably like the little girl in the fairy tale with red shoes, dance and dance.

Before I was ten years old, I didn't know what else to do in this world besides dancing. Be a teacher like my teacher - the one who taught me "dream". I never thought about it that way. I just want to dance.

My mother used to dance folk dances, and I danced Latin, because there is only one art teacher who teaches Latin dance in our school. In fourth grade, math classes seemed to get harder, but I still danced a lot. Sometimes I don't go to class, and with the girls in the same class, I run away after handing in the homework: "I'm sorry, teacher, we're going to rehearse!"

The math teacher is a young girl who seems to be in her twenties. She has always believed that girls have to study to have a bright future. So I looked down on us the most—especially me, who was very hateful, didn’t like to go to class, and had poor exams. Once I handed in the papers, the teacher only kept me one, and I was very anxious, but she approved the papers in court, and sneered and said to me: Why are there so many mistakes, I think you are dancing and you don’t know anything. The whole class burst into laughter, and I was blushing, trying to explain but unable to utter a word. Looking back now, that was the first time my dream was hit, and it wasn't a small one.

After that, I seldom went to dance. The math teacher's words also stabbed my mother, and she also has a sad thing. I have grown up so much, and her sister-in-law will still scold her face to face: I lost my future because of dancing. Talking and talking, it seems to be true. Mom doesn't want me to dance anymore.

Soon after, the dancing teacher took maternity leave and was away for an entire semester. Mom and I both breathed a sigh of relief. I started to study mathematics desperately, maybe subconsciously wanting to wash away the humiliation in front of the math teacher. When the art teacher came back, before calling everyone to dance, I met her in the corridor one day, and she laughed at me: Oh, why are you so fat, what did your mother feed you? Just this sentence made me blushed, and I wanted to be wiped out on the spot and never see the teacher again.

It was the second time that my original little dream had been smashed, and it was more thorough. It was broken by the person who taught me. After I got home, I was bored for a long time, and my mother persuaded me, which made me even more angry. I remembered what the teacher said, as if she really made me like this because she didn't allow me to dance, so that others would laugh at me. This kind of speculation is too vicious, but this is the disgraceful side of the little girl's heart.

Anyway, I don't dance anymore. Maybe it's not because of that resentment, but some other coincidence that made me abandon this dream. But that resentment was as strong as my mother who chose to drop out of school after accidentally breaking her glasses, and it lingered in my heart for many years.

When I was eighteen or nineteen, I finally met the teacher in the alley one day, the teacher who taught me to dance. Perhaps for revenge, the first thing I noticed was that she was no longer as beautiful as she was many years ago. Even so, I couldn't help calling her teacher excitedly, as if I suddenly ran into my grown-up body when I was a child. She recognized me at a glance without any hesitation, but she just smiled and answered me and asked if I was okay. I was suddenly a little more lost, and there was something else that I couldn't tell. I miss her asking me if she still dances or not. Although my answer is bad.

I occasionally think of this faded dream, only to feel a little bitter inside. But in the era I live in, it is also an era when I sing "A dream that can't be chased, just change another dream", I can always change another dream and continue to do it. Just yesterday, I suddenly told my mom, Mom, let me update my dream: to become a poet.

Then my heart started to heat up a little again, just as I learned before I was ten that I was going to dance. Why is this happening, why after I told my mother, the situation will become different, even if it becomes serious. I think my mother is like a wishing pond and a temple. When I say a word to her, it is like a solemn prayer.

In my imagination, my mother would recite this wish in her heart, and then pray for me: it will come true, my child. But what is the actual situation? It took more than ten minutes for my mother to send a message: While working hard, you should also pay attention to your body to see if you can handle it. Sounds really a bit condescending to me.

Speaking of which, my relationship with literature is very casual and reluctant. It was like being driven to that place by something and had to play with it. There is nothing else to play with, just literature, no teacher needed, is the easiest thing I can get.

But I'm really dull, and all the while, I've resisted it too much. The elementary school teacher said, how well you write, like a middle school student. I don't mind either. The high school teacher said you might as well try to write a novel. For some reason, I dared to laugh inwardly, and then let it go. After graduation, the teacher also said, you should study literature or history. But I continued to resist, I was going to go to the rivers and lakes, and I was going to learn journalism. I'm so stupid.

When I had a lot of things in my heart that I wanted to say and had to say, I started to go back on it. But I haven't told anyone, maybe I don't dare. I started writing in 2019. At the same time, I started to care about talent, the intangible and invisible thing. Maybe it's because I'm no longer ten, but twenty. When I was young, I only cared about "going to dance", and I didn't experience the frustration of not being able to stand on the stage, and naturally I didn't think about it. When I grow up, I want to do one thing, but I start to speculate about "can it be done" and "what if it can't be done".

"The realm of creation is also the realm of pride, in which the need to stand out is inseparable from life itself." I would also like to excuse myself in Valéry's words, saying that this is the honor of literature. But I just know - it's because of a lack of courage, I don't dare, I'm not like a ten-year-old.

I've been a nemesis with literature for so many years, but once I look at it seriously, it becomes strange and erratic. But no matter what, I am determined to embark on this path. If it doesn't work, try another dream at the age of 30. (This is a prank, and it is also a real excuse for oneself.)

Although I force myself to stop caring about my talent, I will be happy now that others praise me for my good writing. I will tell myself in my heart, right, go ahead and try it out. Life is so long, what is important, hurriedly ask for an answer, and then rush to reincarnate or do something. If others say you have no talent, will you really give up and not write?

The girl I met last year was in her early teens, and we corresponded for several months. One time she gave me a present, which included a notebook she probably won at school. She also wrote a small note in it: the book! Write more.

People see me, even if I suddenly stop writing tomorrow, I don't think it's strange. But she won't, she knows my heart better than anyone, that slightly hot heart. Children are the sharpest. Just for this sentence, I can continue to write for ten or eight years. At that time she didn't know what she gave me.

The dream I told my mother was also a little rude, like a joke. But in fact, I don't necessarily have to be what or who, this dream is only related to writing. When I was in my twenties, I found another dream, and my dream was to write. As for whether it can lead to literature, I don't know. There is just one wish that makes my heart feel hot.

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