Expression

The first time I truly felt it -- that in the vastness of the universe, we are nothing but specks of dust -- was reading some athlete's account of their own emotional life on Weibo. I've always agreed with that kind of sentiment. Of course, most people who agree also practice what they preach: keep your eyes on the world, keep your head down, make your fortune quietly. That's probably the best way to go about it. I've also read that young people's urge to speak up on the internet is really the powerless reaching for power -- always hoping to create noise, cleverly, within whatever social circle they have, and finding satisfaction in it. I accept these analyses too. And yes: nobility is an epitaph; baseness is a passport. I agree with that as well.

After thinking it over again and again, writing a diary -- quietly, without expectation -- is probably the form of expression I want most. Through this thin, slow, solitary way of communicating, I preserve my voice.

Folding

When news anchors read the headlines, their voices are steady and clear, perfectly enunciated, instantly understood. The voices in grassroots documentaries are flat, noisy, dissonant. Under the grand narrative, the background voices are filtered out and the story becomes uniform. There are three documentaries on YouTube I always come back to: The County Head, The Gods of Sanhe, Hengdian Extras. Recently the recommendation algorithm did its familiar trick, and Opening Day surfaced on my feed. Clicked it excitedly; finished it heavily. The space-time around 2021 was forcibly folded into the footage. Over the course of an hour and change, I'd sometimes stare past the screen, as if I could build my own god's-eye view, seeing people living inside each crease, alive in their own fold.

Land finance, real estate, the Chinese economy -- academic terms like these, even for someone living abroad, are impossible to avoid; the prices of apartments back home going up and down, our generation has absorbed it all by osmosis, and it touches our own interests to varying degrees. The narrators of Opening Day are a group of real estate salespeople in the period just before the collapse. The main thread is clear: during the frenzy, the salespeople roll up their sleeves and the buyers pour in; during the retreat, a last gasp and rising panic; then, before the crash, everyone is jumping at shadows. The main thread reads more like education, a cautionary tale about not chasing manias, about how the collapsing building crushes individual will. I don't like it. All of that is already in the headlines.

Team Two

That night, a team was debriefing after the day's opening results fell short. The top performers shared their experience, summarized customer habits, tried to rally the group. The team lead complained about bad luck while also blaming himself for slacking off, also slipping in his own struggles. Everyone wore shackles, wore masks. They all carried exhaustion and frustration, and they all carried urgent hope. What I felt was not how hard they were trying to live -- only that they were living. Truly existing, alive in that moment. More importantly, they were all living with their own perspectives: purposefully, intentionally, thoughtfully. What they did not feel, and did not need to feel, was the torrent of the real estate era, the plot lines of the grand narrative.

The Benz

In the documentary, a salesperson video-calls his child and says he'll drive a Benz home for the new year. What moved me was not the contrast between that moment on the call and the difficulties of his actual life. It was that all of this is ironclad proof that they were truly alive. When business was booming, they popped bottles, dreamed about the future -- that was living. When no one showed up, they brooded, wracked their brains -- that was living too. They also gazed at the stars, analyzed the global economy; they also read people, crafted strategies. They cut corners, and they enjoyed windfalls. Against the backdrop of the era, each person alive and being themselves is its own reason for existing.

Beyond the Mountain

Since childhood the textbooks told us: beyond the mountain, there is another mountain. Beyond my own grand narrative, there are other stories. Inside my story, there are other people's grand narratives. I think I'll just stay in my own fold. Winding through nine bends and eighteen turns -- endless fun.