Mess

The more I write, the more I realize that the hardest part of writing an article is settling on a title. Especially with essays — before you write, you don't even know what mood you're trying to express. Once a title is set, when you run out of things to say, the title becomes your reason to keep going. You start wondering: have I fully captured what I meant? Have I done justice to the title? Have I brought out the central idea to its fullest?

I once read an article, probably by some writer, that contained a line roughly like this: "Don't let the last step become the reason for the next one." Take, for example, picking up a mouse pad, then buying a mouse, then realizing you don't have a computer, so you get a whole tower, then a monitor. You never actually intended to do something in the first place, but once you stumble into a beginning, you can't tidy it up. Like when you fly into a rage for a woman's sake — halfway through your fury, you've already worked it out, but you still keep up the act, playing along with that opening and continuing something you never planned to do. That said, who can predict the unknown? Us ordinary folk make a choice with no warning at all, then helplessly walk a road of no return.

So I can't help noticing that writing an article is really no different from being a person. Without a good title, without a strong desire to express something, no matter how ornate the language, the result is just a laundry list. Some say this is the essay form — write whatever comes to mind, that's prose: form scattered, but spirit gathered. But you have to wonder: what's the point of writing a piece with no structure at all? Maybe it's for pleasure, for venting, writing for the sake of writing, to summarize or record the memories of your growth. Those memories, when you look back and read these words, still bring the same melancholy, the same bewilderment. This kind of meaningless writing carries no positive energy at all. If you write purely to record, it's completely unnecessary — because time remembers everything for you. Every cloud that passed, every grain of sand, bears the marks of your joys and sorrows. Writing for the sake of writing makes you nothing but a biological machine that converts neural currents into text. The words aren't yours, the feelings aren't yours either, because you can't control them — all you do is transcribe the will of some god.

Today was supposed to be a memorable one — eating watermelon by the stove. Today is the last day of my first 24 years. If 12 years counts as one cycle, this is also the end of the second cycle. Everyone always says, "Tomorrow will be a new day, a new beginning." Quietly considering it, I beg to differ. If you're always thinking tomorrow will be a new day, you've thoroughly abandoned the today that's still incomplete. It's like telling your current partner, "The next one might be a better fit" — how could either of you bear it?

Qian Zhongshu said: given a bunch of grapes, some people start with the small, not-so-good-looking ones; others start with the big, plump ones. The first kind always eats the worst of what's left with each bite, while the second always eats the best of what's left. Logically, the first kind should be pessimistic and the second optimistic, but the opposite is true — because the first always has hope, while the second only has memories. But memories and hope, to me, are ultimately things that fool yourself and others. A successful person isn't driven by bleak memories, nor sustained by vague hopes. Those who say tomorrow is a new beginning are deceiving themselves, forcing themselves to forget how badly today went, even wishfully thinking maybe tomorrow's luck won't be so bad. Tomorrow after tomorrow, how many tomorrows there are. Rather than pinning hopes on tomorrow, live with solidity — truly think about the present, and how to make the present feel most meaningful in the moment.

Tomorrow won't be a new beginning, nor will yesterday remain forever in the past. When today is unfortunately reduced to yesterday, when tomorrow becomes now — if you've truly, fully lived, and you look back: yesterday can't be changed, but if it built today, days stack up one by one, and no day is entirely new. Because you deeply know your past, and you can grasp your tomorrow. You can come and go freely, you can travel through every one of your past and future days — only then are you truly yourself.

So, no matter how the world changes, you can live with clarity.