Adolescence is also a period of rebellion

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Adolescence is also a period of rebellion. She doesn’t like it when her parents give her orders and make her do things she doesn’t want to do. She also dislikes it when her parents start talking about studying as soon as they start a conversation with her. One day, she finally had an argument with her parents. She cried, and she shouted at them, “You’re always working; when have you ever spent time with me?” Why do you always have to control me? You don’t have the right to do that. ”“Snap”! With a crisp sound, a handprint appeared on her face. “Say that again – we work so hard all the time, isn’t it all so that you can get into a good university? ”She looked at her father who had hit her: \"Study, study… All you know is to make me study. Have you ever really cared about me, about how I am living day by day? Do you even know that?\" I just hope you can spend more time with me. I hate you guys. ”She was very angry and vented all the sadness she had carried over the years at once. She returned to her room and, as usual, curled up in the corner, saying no more words. Touching that yellowed photo, tears once again slipped silently down. Outside Milan, there is a lush pasture; the morning sun turns the mist into the color of strawberry desserts. The pasture is connected to Milan by a path that’s like a rope. The little blacksmith’s footsteps disrupted the tranquility of the early morning. He had already delivered the newly forged horseshoes to the farmers outside the city. Returning to the city, he hurried through the streets paved with stones. A flock of white pigeons was disturbed by him and suddenly took off into the air; their wings flapped through the thick mist as they circled in the sky like falcons. The young blacksmith stopped at an old newspaper stand by the street corner. In the window in front of him was a handmade guitar. The woman who ran the grocery store had long grown tired of this annoying boy, who would always stand in front of her shop early in the morning. The female boss drove the young blacksmith away. The little blacksmith left in frustration. He knew he was just a blacksmith, and that a few copper coins earned each day couldn’t afford such an expensive instrument. Yet the image of that guitar haunted his thoughts like a ghost at midnight: its smooth body had a faint golden sheen, with simple patterns spreading across it in a fluid manner, as if beautiful music were already being played from those strings. The little blacksmith was in ecstasy; in his imaginary world, his fingers flew over the strings. Oh! That wonderful sound produced beautiful variations, and the little blacksmith could hardly believe his ears; he really heard faint singing. Passing by the tall Baroque buildings on the street, the sound came from that dilapidated tavern; it must have been an Eastern bard performing with his unique voice, singing beautiful Eastern European folk songs. The young blacksmith couldn’t help but push open that broken gate; a series of noisy sounds and a strong smell of alcohol rushed at him. “Hi! Minstrel, what key is that Eastern European folk song in? ”The little blacksmith shouted. Laughter erupted in the tavern; everyone was mocking the ragged blacksmith who spent his days standing in front of the grocery store’s window, lost in thought. The tavern owner grabbed him by the collar and lifted him up. “Hi! Poet! ”The little blacksmith struggled, but was still mercilessly thrown out. He was thrown hard to the ground; dust flew everywhere, and tears welled up in his eyes – tears of anger, helplessness, and despair! It is a surrender to fate, just as the poets sing: Fate surrenders under the scorching sun… Even the follies of youth turn into beautiful memories over the years.