For years the initiatives are passed unanimously,and I keep silent at the end of my classroom,smiling.

But that’s only the denouement of the story.My story began roughly ten years ago,when I was just a kid who turned on television in a afternoon merely for amusement.At that moment I started to know the tutor through my life,although incorporeal.

The phantom of the opera,it is what people called him,a ghost,an imp,a creature born with inauspiciousness.The first gift he received from his mother was a mask,a tool to conceal his abhorrent face and hide in the crowd.

But I love him at the first glance,though a girl aged 8 knew almost nothing about this elusive emotion. I started to empathize with this pityful and distorted mind,thinking of who is to blame.

Himself,that’s the first came to my mind.But then,all the stuff mixed together and I felt confounded to find out the second leading factor.

Finally I just realized that the world is so procrustean,especially when I live in a country where all the citizens have the superficial freedom which means no de facto freedom at all.From dawn to dusk,I sit on a little wooden chair doing the 20-centimeter-high homework and supplementary exercise futilely.With the help of these paper,I can recite the names of all the tiny railway stations and routes in my homeland,while still remaining to know nothing about the life of people there who suffer from poverty.When it comes to literature,I have been told to describe all my true feeling towards life ever since the primary school,and ironically,keep writing the illusory and delicate truth for almost 12 years.There is no way to express myself when the majority remain inaction dealing with the current education system in China.I understand the feeling of being deserted by the crowd because it is almost the same as the phantom experienced in his traumatic childhood.

And now I am tired about all this,all these years I live scrupulously trying so hard to adapt to the so-called tradition in my motherland.Every night the epilogue’Down once more’ lingers in my dream,and a decade later,it transfer from a childish fantasy to the painful reality which I have to admit,though reluctantly.

The 8-year-old girl had a dream, which is her first one,and also the last.In her utopia,Eric will grow up without agony and become a prominent musician instead of the Opera Ghost.After all these years,it’s still my duty to stay true to hers.

The world needs the voice of minorities.