Short Thoughts

It’s raining in Chengdu. It stopped quickly, and now all I can hear is the hum of the air conditioner and the sound of raindrops dripping onto the awning outside—making the night feel especially quiet. I rarely experience the night like this. Nights are supposed to be this way, but the occasional time it actually registers feels special. I’ve been so busy, so caught up in the rush, that I’ve forgotten to savor life. So many meaningful things slip right past me. No matter how hard I try to recall the past—what I ate, what I did—it’s all a blank. This programmed existence has made me lazy about thinking and addicted to laziness. Any attempt to struggle feels pale and powerless. I try to change, but in the end I find myself helplessly standing back at the starting point.

I’ve been trying to read some poetry. I downloaded some on eMule—Shu Ting, Gu Cheng, Bei Dao, Xu Zhimo. Only Xi Murong really resonates with me. Bei Dao and Gu Cheng are pretty good too. Maybe because I’m twenty-one. Maybe because Xi Murong was also in her twenties when she wrote that poem. Twenty-one—the age of love.

I’m also a bit of a literary youth. I used to be more so; now not entirely. These days I only read occasionally, not with the same frenzy as before. But what I read now has more depth, more insight. As you live, you gradually understand some truths that others can’t quite put into words. Only through experience do you truly get it. That’s why life is the best teacher, and we should be its diligent students.