Hey guys ><
i am new here, and i have put much effort on writing this essay. i really want to write something about my hometown, about where i grow up. But my teachers and friends think it so hard to understand, and not concrete enough. I definitely know...but i couldn't find other ways to cooperate more experiences with the essay.
so it will be sooooooo nice if your guys can say something about it.
The petite girl, with red ribbons on her plaits, stepped out of her grandmother's house. It was the refreshing early morning, her favorite time of the day. Holding some money, she weaved her way through elderly men with their Pekingese and bird cages, grannies with their small handcarts, finally earning herself an egg pie at the busy breakfast booth. This was the most delicious food she had ever had; she was perfectly satisfied. And her new day began.
On her way home, she caught a grinder sharpening a knife on his shabby bike. His simple tools, including a bucket of water and a worn-out rag, were wielded with surprising dexterity. Finishing the knife and handing it back to his customers, he got on his bicycle. Reverently, the girl watched the man gradually disappearing in the Hutongs, his cry of "Here to sharpen your scissors and knives!" echoing in her mind. She really liked these artless craftsmen; they were the living spirit of Beijing: diligent, forthright and optimistic.
Suddenly, she spotted an extraordinary kite in the sky: unique and vivid, flying freely and high. She wanted to catch it.
She stared at the kite intently and followed it tightly in the Hutongs. But the zigzag old Hutongs always blocked her view: sometimes the kite appeared, sometimes it vanished; sometimes she had to sheer, sometimes she was distracted by the tempting aromas from the roadside residences. For the first time, she was miffed at Hutongs; the place she cherished so much also got so much in her way. She was exhausted, yet she kept running.
She ran, ran and ran. Gradually, the kite became smaller, and so did the Hutongs. The gray walls had dimmed to twinkling flares; they could no longer stop her. It was as if she were free, because what attracted her to continue was no longer the kite, it was running itself.
For the first time in her life, she had found herself: She inhaled deeply and exhaled heavily. She kissed every breath of air. She could run to the left or to the right. She sensed both the pain of her throat and the happiness of her soul. She was the master of herself. Never before had she been so close to herself.
She ran, ran and ran. Unexpectedly she arrived at the end of the Hutongs. She stopped, looking back. Astonished, she found that the Hutongs appeared stranger and stranger to her: it was dotted with pubs and subway stations. She could hardly remember what it used to be; something was collapsing-her childhood, her past. But she felt that the essence of the old Beijing was still deep in her soul: industrious, straightforward and sanguine. Then she turned around.
I was once that girl.
There is a brand new road sign. I don't know where it leads. But I won't look back. The past belongs to the girl eating the egg pie in the Hutongs. This is future that belongs to me.
Rebirth.
i am new here, and i have put much effort on writing this essay. i really want to write something about my hometown, about where i grow up. But my teachers and friends think it so hard to understand, and not concrete enough. I definitely know...but i couldn't find other ways to cooperate more experiences with the essay.
so it will be sooooooo nice if your guys can say something about it.
The petite girl, with red ribbons on her plaits, stepped out of her grandmother's house. It was the refreshing early morning, her favorite time of the day. Holding some money, she weaved her way through elderly men with their Pekingese and bird cages, grannies with their small handcarts, finally earning herself an egg pie at the busy breakfast booth. This was the most delicious food she had ever had; she was perfectly satisfied. And her new day began.
On her way home, she caught a grinder sharpening a knife on his shabby bike. His simple tools, including a bucket of water and a worn-out rag, were wielded with surprising dexterity. Finishing the knife and handing it back to his customers, he got on his bicycle. Reverently, the girl watched the man gradually disappearing in the Hutongs, his cry of "Here to sharpen your scissors and knives!" echoing in her mind. She really liked these artless craftsmen; they were the living spirit of Beijing: diligent, forthright and optimistic.
Suddenly, she spotted an extraordinary kite in the sky: unique and vivid, flying freely and high. She wanted to catch it.
She stared at the kite intently and followed it tightly in the Hutongs. But the zigzag old Hutongs always blocked her view: sometimes the kite appeared, sometimes it vanished; sometimes she had to sheer, sometimes she was distracted by the tempting aromas from the roadside residences. For the first time, she was miffed at Hutongs; the place she cherished so much also got so much in her way. She was exhausted, yet she kept running.
She ran, ran and ran. Gradually, the kite became smaller, and so did the Hutongs. The gray walls had dimmed to twinkling flares; they could no longer stop her. It was as if she were free, because what attracted her to continue was no longer the kite, it was running itself.
For the first time in her life, she had found herself: She inhaled deeply and exhaled heavily. She kissed every breath of air. She could run to the left or to the right. She sensed both the pain of her throat and the happiness of her soul. She was the master of herself. Never before had she been so close to herself.
She ran, ran and ran. Unexpectedly she arrived at the end of the Hutongs. She stopped, looking back. Astonished, she found that the Hutongs appeared stranger and stranger to her: it was dotted with pubs and subway stations. She could hardly remember what it used to be; something was collapsing-her childhood, her past. But she felt that the essence of the old Beijing was still deep in her soul: industrious, straightforward and sanguine. Then she turned around.
I was once that girl.
There is a brand new road sign. I don't know where it leads. But I won't look back. The past belongs to the girl eating the egg pie in the Hutongs. This is future that belongs to me.
Rebirth.