Heart is mirror

My memory, epiphany and true heart.

Translated from my original Chinese text with the assistance of Chatgpt. https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/FvWaBYB8ITQjNi-X1yVVOw?token=217323060&lang=zh_CN

Autumn in Beijing

Prologue 1

Lately, my luck has been pretty good — I feel as if I’ve begun to gain some insight into martial arts, acupuncture, and even video games. Riding the wave of a ten-game winning streak, I’d like to share a few thoughts.

Prologue 2

As I write, I gradually feel the boundaries of time blurring, making it impossible to compose this piece in one go, from beginning to end. Instead, I find myself repeatedly returning to the beginning, revisiting various versions of myself. This piece, from the preface to the epilogue, was not written in chronological order because I am not peering across time to observe those versions of me from afar. They all stand there simultaneously, meeting my gaze with equal clarity. They exist with me here and now. I don’t need to labor over their thoughts or feelings; I simply wait for the right moment during countless encounters to record their confessions.

Sometimes, I am grateful to still be in my early twenties, sparing me the abrupt leap from conversing with my infant self, just learning to speak, to suddenly facing an elderly version of myself with white hair. Not that such an exchange would be unwelcome, but my modest literary skills might falter when attempting to reconcile such vastly different versions of myself. I have yet to hear the voice of my future self, but I know they are here, standing quietly by my side, waiting. I also know you will come to face the many versions of me, perhaps traversing mountains and valleys, or simply strolling peacefully into my life. I want to thank you for arriving at each version of me, for your gaze has given me strength that I cannot repay. Yet, if you are in pain, please believe that there is a heart sincerely loving you. May that belief grant your pure and unblemished soul a small measure of strength.

Mirror

“We are all like mirrors, capable of reflecting the world, but only able to see the part we choose.” — Charles Baudelaire

Spring

Thirty minutes later, the broadband technician departed with a wry remark, “Looks like there’ll be one less person downstairs soon.” In the corner, orange and green lights blinked steadily, as if the comic books themselves were reminiscing about the marbles scattered near the magazine rack back when they sat on store shelves. It was during my second year of primary school, when our family got its first computer, that the third-ranked ruler of my time — video games — began its reign. Curious about the top two? Sleep and exams. Reflecting on how one’s time is parceled out this way carries an unmistakable undertone of dark humor. Yet, seeing my classmates follow similar patterns, the humor fades into something much harder to laugh at.

It’s no easy task to clearly outline the contours of video games. Unlike “a thousand Hamlets in a thousand people’s eyes,” the images conjured by video games seem far fewer. Perhaps they boil down to just two: a destructive force of chaos or an indistinct reflection of oneself. To most modern parents, video games are the root of all evil — the cause of their child’s declining grades, rebellion, and moral decay. To them, video games might as well be “dripping with blood and filth from every pore.” I can’t help but think of Harry Potter gazing into the Mirror of Erised, seeing himself reunited with his parents. But when adults peer into the mirror of video games, they often see themselves as trembling children, lost in endless darkness, while children, in turn, see themselves as omnipotent adults — only missing a heart.

The mirror does not choose; it merely reflects. And so, it bore witness as I raided the vibrant, colorful fields of my mother’s colleagues on QQ Farm using her account, saw my sister and me fiercely competing in an array of mini-games on 4399, and observed me becoming the center of attention during computer class by introducing Shanghai Blood of War to my classmates via a USB drive.

It captured my antics in a second-tier city’s primary school, where I earned the dubious reputation of being a little troublemaker. Later, it followed me as I moved with my mother and sister to the provincial capital, supported by my uncle Xinhe, in pursuit of better educational opportunities. It watched as I clashed with other out-of-town students, our brief camaraderie unraveling into fractious divides. Ultimately, as my sister and I struggled to adapt, and with my mother’s health deteriorating, we returned to our hometown two years later.

Mengzi’s mother moved three times to find the right environment for her son — a strategy that seems to have failed for us, or perhaps succeeded in its own way. I can’t pinpoint exactly when things began to change. Maybe it was the endless refrain of “Learn from your sister and stop causing trouble,” or the warnings like “If you don’t try harder, you’ll be letting down everyone who’s worked so hard for you.” Or perhaps it was in second grade when my grandfather (dad’s father) heard me declare that I wanted to be a farmer when I grew up. His furious roar of “I’d rather raise a dog than raise you!” was accompanied by a hard slap, one that finally seemed to take effect. My grades soared.

The year we returned home, my grandmother’s (mom’s mother) mental health began to deteriorate rapidly. I was in fifth grade, and League of Legends made its way into my life.

Summer

Two years later, I graduated from primary school. By a twist of fate, I passed the selection test at an external tutoring center and was admitted to a reputable middle school in Zhengzhou, the capital city of Henan province. Conveniently, it was located near my uncle Xinhe’s home, where I spent my weekends. Uncle Xinhe, my grandfather’s second son, was a man with some wisdom. He took good care of my studies and daily life without being overly strict. In my memory, he only formally criticized me twice. The first instance was after a simulated military training session at the start of the semester when I returned home with leftover snacks he had brought me, instead of sharing them with my classmates. The second was during an English class when I, along with a few classmates, commented to the teacher that his lecture was somewhat confusing. This feedback unexpectedly provoked the teacher, leading him to storm out of the classroom in anger. Looking back now, criticism and advice often have little effect on people. True growth only comes from within. Like the Buddha, who never answer questions directly, knowing that most people either wouldn’t understand, couldn’t follow through, or wouldn’t sustain the effort. Effective teaching must come from a connection of hearts — offering love and time, patiently waiting for growth to happen. I didn’t fully understand my uncle’s criticisms, but I tried to follow them. Unfortunately, the results weren’t significant.

Staying at my uncle’s house meant fewer restrictions on electronics, giving me more opportunities to play video games, though my skills didn’t improve much. I owe an apology to his dog. Once, when I was home alone and engrossed in gaming, I locked it on the balcony, where it barked nonstop all morning. Since then, the energetic little dog seemed to hold a grudge against me. My cousin Xiaowen, who lived with my uncle, also enjoyed games. His academic performance wasn’t stellar, but he was warm and kind-hearted. Sadly, the age gap between us was too large; otherwise, I might have joined his university friends in their LAN gaming sessions at internet cafés. Though staying at my uncle’s house didn’t feel overly burdensome, my young self still struggled with the feeling of dependence. Once I became accustomed to school life, I transitioned to full-time boarding, returning home only for major holidays. My last vivid memory of staying with my uncle was of him dozing on his bed on a lazy afternoon, a cassette player beside him broadcasting an old man’s commentary on the Bible. I knew there was tension between him and my grandfather, though I didn’t know why. It seemed like the inevitable fate of Chinese fathers and sons. I sensed a quiet frustration in him, a feeling of unrealized potential, but I didn’t know how to console him. I could only awkwardly leave it be.

When I entered middle school, I was placed in an advanced class, ranking 16th in the entrance exam. Over the semester, I improved but remained inconsistent. Academic life was challenging yet manageable; social interactions and daily life were riddled with mistakes, leaving an overall impression of stumbling through. In hindsight, not volunteering to be class president would have made my life easier. Then again, the experience honed my ability to churn out self-criticisms, ranging from a few hundred to a few thousand words, at a moment’s notice. Succeeding in academics and writing self-criticisms were one and the same — just follow the rules, keep your head down, and don’t stop moving forward. Among my classmates, I was closer to Lu and Ma. Lu was stubborn and frequently clashed with teachers, earning a reputation for lacking common sense. In truth, he was a genuine and caring person. Perhaps his childhood years in the United States had left him unaccustomed to the culture of “putting on a mask and letting things slide,” making him appear out of place in our environment.I met Ma during the simulated military training for students. We discovered that we both played on the same League of Legends server, a connection that felt like finding an old friend in a foreign land. One New Year’s holiday, as out-of-town students, we stayed behind at school. That Friday evening, we cemented our bond while sharing Wi-Fi in a nearby bakery, an experience that solidified a true “comrade friendship.”

Boarding life left little room for gaming, ushering in a brief second spring for novels and comics. Though I didn’t get along well with my roommate in Bed 1, I’m grateful he left behind books like Brothers, To Live, and Chronicles of a Blood Merchant on the shelf. I couldn’t fully grasp them, but that didn’t stop Yu Hua, an intriguing old writer, from alleviating my weekend boredom. Aside from that, there wasn’t much to do. Life became a cycle of turning external feedback into fuel for self-criticism. When everyone tells you that excelling in exams is the only measure of success, and anything else is irrelevant — or worse, irresponsible and a waste of time — it leaves you with no other choice. Adapting to hardship, I developed some unique skills. Taking a hot basin of water and mixing it with cold water for a quick bath in winter became second nature. Sliding down the handrail of stairs from the fourth floor, dashing across the playground, through the high school campus and over the skybridge, and finally up to the third floor of the canteen for a quick meal became my signature move. Speed and precision were key. Tearing apart a steamed bun and gulping it down while running back to class required just the right pace — too fast, and you’d choke; too slow, and you’d waste time. Eventually, I mastered the art of a nine-minute round trip between the classroom and the canteen — a legendary skill that, sadly, ended after a fateful misstep on the skybridge left me with a sprained ankle.

After my injury, uncle Xinhe took me to see a doctor. I hobbled on crutches between the classroom, canteen, and dorm for two weeks before my mother came to take care of me in the consideration of safety. Later, my sister, with excellent grades, was admitted to a top high school in Zhengzhou. My mother began traveling from our hometown every other weekend, staying with us at a hotel. Like most Chinese teenagers, my relationship with my parents was less than harmonious. I was baffled by the contradictions in most Chinese parenting styles — they believe their children are inherently unruly and must be strictly controlled, yet they place unshakeable faith in exam-oriented education to mold these wild natures into something great. They want their children to be happy but cannot stand seeing them relax, treating hardship as both a necessary evil and a badge of virtue. They gritted their teeth and spared no expense for their children, yet simultaneously made it so easy for their children to feel guilty — as if this guilt could somehow reverse the flow of money already spent. The physical closeness of my mother and me did little to prevent the growing emotional distance between us. She scolded me for spending weekends glued to electronic devices, saying I treated my iPad like my true mother. I remained silent. The hotel’s high-latency internet made gaming difficult, so I spent most of my time watching anime and movies. Accompanied by the films of Makoto Shinkai, I entered the final year of middle school.

In our class, a wave of early romances stirred up trouble. Most of these relationships were just ordinary friendships, but the “better to wrongly accuse a thousand than to let one slip by” principle still prevailed. In truth, most so-called early romances — especially the uniquely “Chinese-style” ones — were rarely about actual relationships. Instead, they were a suppressed individual attempting to project their inner self onto a specific external object. Put simply, it might look like a relationship on the surface, but in reality, both individuals were “dating” themselves, seeking to rediscover pieces of their lost identities. Education is meant to liberate, but exam-focused education serves to seal people away. This kind of self-exploration inevitably becomes a target for suppression. At the time, I couldn’t fully understand this phenomenon ; I only felt a vague sense of absurdity in the disproportionate reactions to these situations. However, I came to deeply understand one essential strategy for “winning” in the exam game: two critical rules — Don’t think and Don’t stop. The growing distance from my own heart allowed me to pile on even more fear as pressure. My grades soared again, securing me a place in the top two of my class and the top ten in my grade.

Not long after, I climbed to first place in my class and second in the entire grade — just one step away from the top. My teachers and parents were thrilled, but I felt no real joy. I told myself, Once I’m number one, it’ll all feel worthwhile. Deep down, I knew I was lying to myself, but sometimes, lying to yourself is the only way forward. The top-ranked student in the grade had a name derived from the saying, “The peach and the plum do not speak, yet a path is formed beneath them.” He was the epitome of an all-around exemplary figure, excelling in all aspects. A regular speaker under the national flag, he was said to have no desires and unyielding willpower. Rumor had it that he’d grown bored of video games by third grade and never touched them again. While most of us were consumed by internet novels and manga, he was reading Selected Works of Mao Zedong, earning a reputation as an untouchable role model. Without speaking to him directly, I could only imagine him like a frog gazing up at the moon from the bottom of a well — a glimpse, but never the full picture. Once, I brought him a math problem I couldn’t solve. He responded with warmth and sincerity, patiently breaking it down with the precision of a skilled butcher dismembering an ox. His explanations were so comprehensive that he even offered supplementary tips to strengthen my grasp of the concept. I felt like an ant gazing up at the vast blue sky, realizing the seemingly small step that separated us was, in fact, an insurmountable chasm. I could only sigh and let it go.

Later I came down with acute gastroenteritis. I spent an afternoon staring at the tiles of the restroom before dragging myself to the nearby clinic for help. The clinic was nearly empty, and I was soon hooked up to an IV drip. A father and son arrived not long after. The boy, nearing the college entrance exams, looked utterly spent. The doctor prescribed some calming and brain-nourishing supplements, advising him to focus on consistent effort rather than last-minute cramming, assuring him that all he needed to do was stay calm and finish the exam. The father chuckled with slight embarrass, handed over the money, and left with his son, who seemed caught between nodding and shrinking into himself. With one free hand, I tried to read a book to pass the time, but the prolonged dehydration and weakness made it impossible to focus. The words danced on the page, refusing to form coherent thoughts. By the time I left the clinic, the night was deep, and I walked back to my dorm along Sakura Street. The dim streetlights cast fragmented shadows of leaves on the cracked concrete road, brushing lightly against me. I felt my pulse, faint like the trembling of leaves in the wind, stopping momentarily before resuming its rhythm. I recognized it as a skipped pulse — pulsus alternans. It reminded me of when I’d told my mother about occasional chest pains. After a check-up revealed sinus arrhythmia, the doctor said treatment wasn’t necessary, and my mother brushed it off, advising me to play fewer video games and exercise more.

I was deeply thankful to the dorm teacher who stayed up late to unlock the door for me. After taking some stomach medication, I climbed into bed, seeking respite. On Friday nights, the dormitory was almost empty, inhabited only by the security guard, a handful of on-duty teachers, and a few remaining students like me. Alone in my room, I was enveloped in the peculiar stillness unique to the weekend. Suddenly, two blue-tinged images surfaced in my mind. In one, a feverish younger version of myself sat in aunt Qin’s tractor, jolted along a muddy countryside road. In the other, I glimpsed the interior of a rural health clinic, its details shrouded in indistinct haze. I couldn’t confirm if these were genuine memories, but they seemed to embody my first encounter with death — like being adrift on a gray-blue sea, rising and falling with the rippling waves stirred by the tractor’s motion. I thought of Yu Hua. He was right — memories truly have no sound. Silence swallowed me whole.

Ma was admitted to the Youth Program at Xi’an Jiaotong University, a guaranteed path to an integrated bachelor’s and master’s degree — a prestigious accomplishment. For a time, he was the center of attention, seemingly leaping to the finish line in one bound. Yet, playing games with him and overhearing his mother’s complaints, I was reminded that even after a “golden ticket,” life doesn’t change as dramatically as one might think. I couldn’t help admire him, but I also knew I had to carve out a different path for myself. There was no way I could maintain my current state and endure three years of high school in Henan’s intense exam-oriented education. Studying abroad through the international program seemed like an option, but the costs were daunting. My sister mentioned that our grandfather might have esophageal cancer, adding to my parents’ financial strain. Fortunately, our extended family — numerous siblings of my parents’ generation — could help ease the burden. Still, my sister hoped to attend the University of Hong Kong, which was bound to be expensive. Weighing my options, I resolved to pursue a full scholarship for a study-abroad program in Singapore, a chance to “escape.” With unwavering support from my mother and hoomroom teacher, I secured a spot in the program at our school, setting my sights on the month ahead, when I’d face Singapore’s exams and interviews hosted by the Ministry of Education. My homeroom teacher was a diligent and caring mentor who went above and beyond to prepare us for this niche opportunity, even reaching out to alumni who had succeeded in the program to offer guidance. I was deeply grateful to her, but the rigid reverence demanded by the exam-oriented education system made it hard to open up fully to anyone.

With a calm kind of desperation, I threw myself into the effort. Armed with vocabulary books, the dim light of the dormitory bathroom after lights-out, and familiar meals of steamed buns and pickles, I powered through the gauntlet of exams. After the grueling high school entrance exam, I couldn’t relax — I cried tears of exhaustion while cramming unfamiliar English words into my mind. And then, fortune smiled upon me.

Later Summer

I was playing Honor of Kings on my iPad when the message from the Ministry of Education came through, confirming my acceptance to Singapore. My mother was overjoyed. I, however, felt detached, though I followed her lead and expressed happiness. I’ve never liked the word offer. On one hand, it carries a sense of objectification, as if someone is looking down on you from above. On the other, it always reminds me of off free — not a license to freely come and go, but a heavy price paid to lose a piece of freedom. Meanwhile, my grandmother’s health had deteriorated drastically; she could barely recognize me anymore. In the game, Li Bai, dressed in the Van Helsing skin, darted and slashed with grace. I felt like Dracula, weighed down by guilt. Some mistakes can be made over and over again, but others — some mistakes — you can’t afford to make even once.

I watched as my grandmother’s once Buddha-like, plump figure withered into a skeletal frame, her gaze transformed from loving serenity to one of profound fear. She was the only person in the world who had ever loved me without condition, finding everything I did endearing. And now, I knew she was slipping away. I remembered those childhood summers in air-conditioned rooms, long past the need for nursing, curled in her lap, greedily suckling on her breasts — flattened and frail after nursing nine children. She smiled down at me, half squinting, her mouth slightly ajar as she waved a blue plastic fan to cool me off. Above the bed hung a portrait of the “Compassionate Avalokitesvara Bodhisattva,” gazing at me with a serene expression that held neither joy nor sorrow. That same image of Avalokitesvara must have been watching the day my grandmother asked me to help her call someone about a plot of land in her hometown. Following the adults’ advice, I didn’t take her seriously. Instead, I deliberately dialed a wrong number to dissuade her. My grandmother, with so many children, moved between the homes of her sons and daughters, staying a few days with each. When I saw her again, her condition had worsened dramatically. Her teeth chattered uncontrollably, and her mental state had sharply declined. Back then, I didn’t realize the gravity of my mistake, one that could never be undone. Over and over, I’ve imagined the outcome if I had made that call, offering her a lifeline as she teetered on the edge of despair. But Avalokitesvara gave me no answer.

My father impatiently took my tearful mother, who had cried through the night, to see my grandmother. Frustrated, he snapped that my grandmother’s illness was nothing but an act. At the time, I couldn’t understand my father’s harshness. Only now can I begin to see it for what it was. He was trying to comfort my mother, but as someone who had lost his own mother at a young age, how could he confront his own emotions? The words, twisted by the weight of his past, came out all wrong. I was reminded of the opening line from The Night Traveler’s Dream Words by Han Shaogong : “Humans often ruin things.” I began to long for the fearless child I once was. When scolded by my grandfather, I would defiantly strip off my pants and urinate, forcing him to retreat in defeat. When my eldest uncle Jia teased me about being arrested for mischief, I would grab a brick and boldly aim it at his police car. I imagined that younger version of myself stepping in during one of the heated arguments between my eldest uncle and my grandmother, delivering a swift kick to my uncle’s backside. But here I was now, reduced to only excelling at exams and playing video games. That child looked back at me, silently mocking what I had become.

Due to differences in academic calendars, the Singaporean secondary school I was admitted to wouldn’t start for another half a year, granting me the first extended holiday of my life. Fresh from the triumph of my scholarship success, I had every excuse to indulge in video games. However, as my classmates were preparing to enter high school, my mother, having snooped through my chat history with friends, forbade me from pulling them into games, worried it might distract them from their studies. Left to my own devices, I played League of Legends. With little talent, I lingered in the Gold rank, unable to climb higher. Meanwhile, my grandfather’s esophageal cancer seemed to worsen. My eldest cousin Yang and his father uncle Xinli planned to take him to Hong Kong for treatment and decided to bring me along to get me accustomed to international travel. My counsin had initially wanted to buy me a business-class ticket, but they were sold out. Someone remarked, “Kids are young; it’s good for them to endure some hardship.” And so, I began to grow accustomed to economy class. Cousin Yang is a man with a strong sense of self, deeply successful in his career, but he felt distant — our encounters were so rare I could count them on one hand. As the saying goes, “an elder brother is like a father,” and steeped in the patriarchal authority my grandfather exuded, my feelings toward him leaned more toward fear than affection, making it hard to open up.

I spent much more time with my eldest uncle Xinli as a child. He cared deeply about the lives and education of my sister and me. I have a vivid memory of him snoring loudly while napping in a building behind our family’s factory, his snores resembling those of an elephant. When a loud sneeze inevitably followed, it would rouse him from his half-slumber, and he’d shuffle downstairs in a daze. Another memory of uncle Xinli involves him scrubbing me clean after I had been playing in the dirt-covered yard. His hands scraped off layer after layer of grime. I disliked bathing but felt oddly happy at that moment. Then there was the time I tried sneaking in some computer time and stumbled upon him in his office, staring blankly at the screen. It was as if he had become lost in the snowy landscapes shared in cousin Yang’s QQ moments, scenes of an American winter he could only imagine from afar.

The fear I felt toward my uncle Xinli was different from the fear I had for my cousin Yang — tinged with a certain irritation. I couldn’t quite understand it. While my uncle retained some measure of the stubbornness and authoritarianism that seemed to run in the family, he was rarely angry. Yet this untraceable fear lingered, its origins elusive. It wasn’t until recently that I remembered an incident from my childhood. One summer, uncle Xinli accidentally left my sister and me in his car under the scorching sun. Too young to figure out the electronic door locks, we were trapped inside. The heat steamed us until our faces turned red, then pale. For the second time in my life, I felt the shadow of death closing in. We pounded on the glass and door in desperation, but it was useless. My uncle-in-law, Jingwen, passed by, saw us flailing wildly inside, and mistook it for playful antics, chuckling as he walked away. Death, however, was beaten by something far more primal: the need to urinate. Stripped of my shirt in an attempt to cool down, I resorted to relieving myself into the thermos cup near the gearshift. Defeated and utterly drained, I slumped into the seat, giving up the fight. I don’t remember how much time passed. Blurred and hazy, I recall uncle Xinli rushing back to unlock the car. That day, as fresh air burst into the car, I felt the coolest breeze I’ve never again experienced.

Hong Kong has never felt like a fortuitous place for me. The thousand-dollar buffets at luxury hotels were tasteless, like chewing wax. The so-called authentic eateries on the streets flaunted exorbitant prices on their menus, leaving me speechless. The private hospital was bright and clean, but the doctors and nurses were expressionless, like robots. Perhaps it was the omnipresent air conditioning that triggered my stomach issues. I lay limp on the hotel bed like a wilted turtle, staring out of the spotless floor-to-ceiling windows at the gray sky and the lifeless waters of Victoria Harbour. My iPad, restricted by regional licensing, couldn’t stream most of the anime or movies I wanted to watch. Regret began to seep in — I wished I had stayed home and played League of Legends.

Autumn

“Iridescent clouds easily disperse into the autumn sky” (Ci Poem: The Beautiful Lady Yu by Nalan Xingde). Whether the Indonesian heiress Qiuyun, now Mrs. Margaret, would recall that fateful afternoon when she and the renamed Jackie — formerly Chen Fuliang — drove together to the edge of the world upon their reunion in Hong Kong, I cannot say. I had a chance to ask Mr. Joo-Ming Chia about this during his talk, but I squandered the opportunity teasing a classmate instead. I don’t regret it much; he likely wouldn’t have known the answer either. Besides, in a tiny place like Singapore, driving for over an hour only brings you to the edge of an endless sea. While my literature classmates often mocked Mr. Chia’s depictions of love, likening his prose to a child awkwardly wielding a broadsword, I admired his talent for naming. If it were left to me, Exile or Pursuit would have devolved into The Adventures of Chen Fuliang. Singapore’s educational system is no different in essence from China’s, but the sheer abundance of resources per student reduces the intensity of the exam culture considerably. While scholarship students like me had to take ten subjects in secondary school compared to the six or seven for locals, the knowledge stuffed into my brain back home was sufficient for a long time.

Far from authority, I’ve got more time to play video games under heaven’s vastness, only need to occasionally respond to my parents’ texts and video calls. Every call with my father followed the same pattern: emphasis on health, studies, and planning for the future. Dutifully, I played along, responding as expected. The early loss of my grandmother had deeply traumatized my father, leaving him clinging to plans as a means of seizing some semblance of security in an unpredictable world. Yet the universe’s Dao is relentless; in a fleeting moment, countless thoughts are born and extinguished. I can only hope the faint comfort this illusion of control provides lingers a little longer, so that the next call might be postponed just a bit further.

The dormitory environment at my Singaporean secondary school was a marked improvement compared to the boarding conditions I experienced in Zhengzhou. Each room housed two students, with a shared bathroom connecting every two rooms. The showers provided unlimited hot water, though this feature felt somewhat redundant in the region’s sticky and humid climate. My roommate, Zhao, hailed from Lanzhou and had a keen interest in flying planes. We didn’t share much overlap in the games we played, but we got along quite well. Our shared amusement came from observing the online relationship dramas of a classmate known by the nickname “Prince XX.” Next door were two other residents: Sun, a wealthy student from Tianjin, and Zhu, who had come from Zhengzhou with me. True to his name, Zhu was accommodating and often mediated disputes between Sun and me. Occasionally, I wondered if we could form the ultimate “The Hundred Surnames” dormitory if Zhu’s surname had been Qian. But the thought of offending the the founding emperor of the Ming Dynasty, Emperor Hong Wu with surname Zhu quickly led me to dismiss the idea.

Rumors swirled about Sun’s family owning both an iron mine and a coal mine, and the collection of colorful, expensive sneakers by the door hinted at the weight of such wealth. It was also said that Sun’s mother, during her visits, would routinely stay in the Marina Bay Sands’ penthouse suite, and her nightly costs in the five-to-six-figure range (in Singapore dollars) were nothing out of the ordinary. I felt little envy toward their fortune, but I couldn’t help admiring Sun’s extraordinary mother. Confucius’ words, “Only women and petty persons are hard to deal with: too close, and they become impertinent; too distant, and they complain,” came to mind. Yet, I mused, perhaps the only three types of people truly free to behave unreasonably were the elderly, children, and noblewomen cradling their sons — they possessed a rare privilege to act imperiously as they pleased. Sun was somewhat arrogant but never overbearing. He played soccer with Zhu and another classmate nicknamed “Fuck the heaven,” who was friends with Zhao. Though I harbored no serious grievances with Sun, my already frayed nerves struggled to endure the symphony of shattering glass and grenade explosions echoing through our shared bathroom late at night as he played Counter-Strike. After several confrontations, Sun finally agreed to wear headphones during his nocturnal gaming sessions. My gratitude toward Sennheiser was boundless, and I found myself newly inspired by Zhang Huai-min, whose legendary patience allowed him to refrain from slapping Su Shi when Su came knocking late at night for nothing. Truly, such restraint was the pinnacle of self-mastery.

Racial discrimination is a red-line issue in multicultural Singapore, yet stereotypes undeniably persist. The Malay community is often seen as excelling in football but not particularly strong in academics. Objectively speaking, however, I found myself benefiting from their struggles, as their efforts often boosted my grades from a B to an A. It reminded me of a line from the Chinese middle school history textbook: “It was our dear African brothers who lifted China into the United Nations.” This gave me a profound sense of global harmony. If only their delightful teh tarik didn’t leave me sleepless through the night, and if the Malay food stalls at school offered a bit more variety, my impression of the Malay community would be utterly flawless. I am especially thankful to my neighbor, An, a Malay classmate who taught me how to use a VPN to bypass the dormitory’s network restrictions. On one unforgettable evening, he helped me recover from a gaming-induced mental breakdown and carried me to the Emerald rank in League of Legends.

Through League of Legends, I made friends both within and outside of school. Among my in-school friends, there were Huang and Wen. Wen was a modestly skilled player with a shy demeanor, yet he had an unexpected talent for the suona, often representing our school in performances. Huang, on the other hand, had moved to Singapore earlier with his mother, excelled academically, and had unique insights into Social Studies. He was always considerate of me, even recommending a chocolate cake that turned out to be exceptional. Under his guidance, I visited an internet café for the first time. I was nervous, recalling uncle Xinli once severely punished my cousin Yang for going to one. However, I quickly realized that it wasn’t much different from playing games at home — albeit with less ergonomic equipment and a less hygienic environment. Feeling underwhelmed, we left after a short while. Later, Huang took me to volunteer at a rare marathon event, where I earned over ten hours of volunteer credit and some transportation allowances, solving the major hurdle of accumulating enough volunteer hours for assessment.

My out-of-school gaming friends included Index, Prince A, Happyzed, and Leyan. Index and I could talk endlessly. He was a master of multiple mobile games and often helped me secure high scores in Honkai Impact 3rd, particularly during the weekly Abyss challenges. Initially, he advised against playing the game, but I have to admit its story later brought me immense inspiration and emotional resonance. I met Leyan a bit later; he was a year ahead of me, a scholarship student with good grades. Unfortunately, he suffered a relationship heartbreak during junior college, which took him a long time to recover from, before eventually going to Australia for university. My relationship with Happyzed was forged in the fires of conflict. From the moment I started playing League of Legends, I seemed cursed with the temperament of Edgar Allan Poe’s Black Cat — volatile, easily angered, and out of control. I clashed with many players, resulting in several accounts being permanently banned for inappropriate language. I owe these friends a great deal of gratitude for their tolerance; no apology would feel sufficient.

Prince A was close to Happyzed and mediated a truce between us over barbecue. He hailed from Fuzhou, the son of a real estate tycoon, with a mother and grandparents who had served as directors in several hospitals. After his parents divorced, he lived with his mother while studying neuroscience in the U.S. He initially came to Singapore for a vacation, but the COVID-19 pandemic extended his stay. Unlike Sun’s confidence bolstered by wealth, Prince A lacked that financial assertiveness. He resembled a despondent ostrich, his signature dark circles prompting concern. While he didn’t shy away from smoking or drinking, he showed restraint around us. Prince A left me with a treasure trove of culinary recommendations, introducing me to affordable, high-quality hotpot and barbecue spots that became staples. During one memorable meal, he recounted a trip to Thailand where he rented a private venue, drank excessively from a metal bucket, and ended up unconscious. He was eventually airlifted back home for treatment. Watching him light a Marlboro with a wry smile, I couldn’t help but think of Eden from Honkai Impact 3rd, who once said, “A fine wine dissolves part the body forever, exchanging it for a fleeting moment of peace for the soul.” Before returning to the U.S., Prince A gifted me a pair of sneakers. While I didn’t understand the fascination wealthy young men seemed to have with shoes, I bought him a tie at Suntec City, hoping it might help this little ostrich hold its head a bit higher.

After a year in Singapore, my League of Legends rank soared past the Diamond threshold, placing me among the top 3% of players worldwide. Yet, I came to realize that the game only truly begins at the Master tier — I hadn’t even scratched the surface. During the holidays, I wasn’t particularly eager to return to China, but my lingering concern for my grandmother ultimately compelled me to go. She was curled up in uncle Jia’s home in SheQi suburb, her mottled, scarred, and brownish-black skin resembling the bark of a dead tree. Under my mother’s patient persuasion, she seemed to recognize me — or perhaps she didn’t. Trembling and groaning, she resembled a wild rabbit caught in the jaws of a leopard. She repeated the childhood nicknames of my mother and her sisters, accusing them of plotting to harm her. I imagined she was consumed by guilt over the children she had given away due to her inability to raise them. That was not her fault, her husband had died too early, and raising the rest of her children alone was already an extraordinary feat. She told me to run away. Unable to meet her gaze any longer, I left her bedroom. Passing the worn wooden table, I remembered how my grandmother used to cheerfully recount that my uncle Jia would sit there, drinking alone and playing cards against himself. A sense of gloom weighed on me. This was the last time I would ever see her. Back home, my grandfather still seemed relatively healthy. The man who once believed that a broken leg should never bring a single tear now carried a newfound softness. He no longer resisted when I retrieved the hidden iPad my parents had taken from him, and instead sighed, “All is fate; nothing is in our control.” My parents, on the other hand, remained unchanged, simply focused as ever on grades and the next steps in education.

The only harmonious moment during the entire holiday was when the three of us went to the cinema to watch Ip Man 4. My sister wasn’t there — she had been guaranteed admission to Fudan University and later went on an exchange program at Harvard’s School of Economics. Over the next three years, I didn’t return home, and I ended up seeing her less often than even cousin Yang. I faintly recalled my father sitting before the same computer my uncle Xinli used to check on my cousin Yang, except the screen didn’t show snow-covered scenes of the Stars and Stripes. Instead, it was Ip Man, where Donnie Yen’s portrayal of the martial arts master survived a gunshot in Japanese-occupied China, also need to struggle to make a living teaching martial arts in Hong Kong. I wondered: when my father, a man whose highest education was high school, received one acceptance letter after another from his children, did he foresee the immense financial burdens that awaited him? Could he catch his breath beneath the Damocles’ sword of fate hanging over his head? Did the fleeting pride brought by these certificates alleviate, even slightly, his sense of helplessness and guilt over his own mother’s early passing? I had no energy to ponder such questions. After that brief moment of harmony came the long inevitable conflicts. In the departure hall, my mother and I clashed once again over the topic of video games. Without looking back, I walked straight toward the security checkpoint for economy-class.

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During my time in Singapore, cousin Yang made a concerted effort to meet me whenever he passed through for business engagements. Remarkably, in the short span of four years, we met three times — a figure rivaling the total number of times I had seen him throughout my entire childhood. The first meeting remains particularly vivid. At the time, I was still unfamiliar with Singapore, and the subway station was some distance from the cluster of luxury hotels in the city center. I decided to take a Uber to the famed Ritz-Carlton. The Uber driver glanced at my attire in the rearview mirror and hesitantly asked if I was staying there. I explained that my “brother” had asked me to meet him, but after a long explanation, he corrected me: it was my “cousin.” Hearing him mutter, “He must be freaking rich,” in a voice laced with mixed emotions, I unconsciously straightened my back, feeling a faint sense of borrowed pride. I couldn’t help but feel relieved not to have been born fifty years earlier; otherwise, I might have found myself swapping places with the driver and suffering through a vitriolic diatribe about being a greedy capitalist dog.

Every time I read Nietzsche’s concept of the Übermensch, I am reminded of cousin Yang. He harbors an equal disdain for all mediocrity around him, operating with rules and order crafted from his own convictions. He conquers all challenges, present and future, whether it’s Mount Everest or the vast deserts of Africa. I am fortunate to share a bloodline with him; otherwise, I suspect he wouldn’t even notice my existence. Each time I prepare to meet him, I feel like a courtier guilty of violating imperial decrees, summoned to the throne to bow and confess my sins. Yet, after every meeting, I find myself in unexpectedly happy. Standing now on the metaphorical steps of the “Hall of Supreme Harmony”, I think of The Warlords, where Qing dynasty statesman Chen Gong recounts how it took him 40 years to walk from the gates of the Forbidden City to its inner sanctum. A sense of surrealism washes over me. I feel, once again, like the turtle that inexplicably wandered into the opulent hotel in Hong Kong, recalling Kafka’s Gregor Samsa transformed into a cockroach. I pray that I won’t be crushed by the golden apple of high society, which should carry an even greater weight than its lower-class version.

Actually cousin Yang never reproaches or blames me. His advice is always far-sighted and pragmatic, delivered with an effortless clarity. He can easily deduce that I have plenty of free time but cannot fathom why I don’t channel it into the abundant opportunities lying within reach. Like a seasoned programmer, he tries to equip my brain with a clean and efficient standard operating system. Yet, he cannot understand why my terminal keeps throwing errors like, “Your program runs for too long.” I am no Übermensch, nor can I interpret his success-driven 0s and 1s with machine-like precision and efficiency. I’m more like a poor compiler — any attempt to compile these cutting-edge algorithms for the optimal life trajectory sends me spiraling into infinite loops of my own messy code. The mental chaos and frustration swirling within me are staggering, and I lack the words to articulate them. My spatial-temporal complexity feels exponential at the very least. Unsure of how to explain, I fumble with fragmented sentences, eventually lapsing into silence. Cousin Yang grows visibly frustrated. He advises me to stop reading Eileen Chang and focus instead on biographies of figures like Elon Musk. I recall Mrs. Perry’s similar look of exasperation when, faced with a silent classroom, she sighed, “This is not fking rocket science.”

Every meeting with Cousin Yang included a hearty meal, but my nerves often left me with little appetite. I usually managed only a modest vegetarian dish. The lavish menus brought to mind Xu Wenbing’s musings on the culinary philosophies of East and West: while Western cuisine seeks rarity and prestige, Chinese cuisine centers on the diner’s genuine needs, eschewing hierarchical distinctions among ingredients. I began to miss the simple delights of hu la tang (spicy soup) and my grandmother’s sweet potato and corn gruel. By the second and third meetings, my nervousness had lessened slightly, but my “compiler” remained just as buggy as ever. The only regret I have is that the pandemic prevented cousin Yang from taking me to watch the F1 races he sponsored. I’ve never been particularly drawn to adrenaline-fueled sports, but I thought it would’ve been wonderful to invite my junior college classmate, Miao, who has a keen interest in racing cars, to share the experience.

In 2019, as the COVID-19 pandemic broke out, Singapore imposed strict lockdown measures during the first year, which gradually eased over time. As irreverent as it may sound, I have to thank the virus for lowering the intensity and difficulty of exams yet another notch. This allowed me to avoid grappling with organic chemistry and the shallow explorations of nuclear physics and electromagnetic conversion at the end of the physics textbook during the O-Levels and instead continue my carefree gaming. That said, the pandemic’s restrictions brought both physical and mental challenges. I was fortunate enough to avoid direct contact with the virus itself but not its smaller minions, succumbing to a nearly 40°C fever. My throat felt like razor blades were slicing through it. A test at the clinic came back negative, leaving me to endure the fever alone in an isolation room on the dorm’s quarantine floor. I recalled my grandfather’s words when he was experiencing esophageal cancer: “Other people’s sympathy only wastes the little energy you have left. Endurance is all you can rely on.” I despised endurance, so I leaned over the sink and manually prodded my swollen tonsils. Those stubborn little glands had always refused to behave, inflating with every illness and turning every fever into a week-long ordeal. Over time, however, I had developed some expertise in managing them. I watched as the vomit evolved from undigested white chyme to yellow-green digestive fluids, and finally, to dry heaving and coughing fits. Satisfied, I collapsed back into bed. My thoughts drifted to the past — to a weekend in third grade after moving to Zhengzhou. Against my mother’s warnings, I drank two 500ml bottles of ice-cold carbonate drinks at Bishagang Park. The Sprite and Coca-Cola waged a brutal battle inside my stomach, and for the first time, I vomited until I was incapacitated, becoming intimately familiar with the nausea-inducing vertigo.

Three days later, I was mostly recovered, save for a lingering sore throat and saliva that refused to cooperate. In the present, I owed my gratitude to my roommate Zhao, who had risked delivering toiletries and my laptop to me two days earlier. With these essentials, I could pass the remaining four days of quarantine with some semblance of joy, eventually losing myself in the fun. Despite Zhao’s appearance in an army green UNIQLO jacket that could easily land him a role as a traitorous guide in an exaggerated anti-Japanese war drama, he do have a robust sense of duty. In wartime, he would undoubtedly have been prime material for an undercover agent.

Winter

Shortly before the O-Level exams, my sister informed me that Grandpa had passed away. She explained that our mother had withheld the news to avoid disrupting my examinations. An odd urge to laugh overcame me — a peculiar impulse that lingered into the night during a video call with my mother from the wake. Scanning the sorrowful faces on the screen, I noticed Uncle Xinhe’s purplish eye circles had darkened into heavy, almost panda-like rings. A strange thought flitted through my mind: He looked like the last panda on Earth. Without thinking, I blurted, “Why so serious?” Aunt Liqin, Uncle Xinhe’s wife, scolded me sharply. Only then did I realize my mistake. I hastily adopted a silent, solemn demeanor as an act of atonement. After hurriedly asking me to acknowledge my elder cousin Yang, my mother ended the call. I was left with a strange detachment, as if the person I had just been was no longer recognizable. Why had I wanted to laugh? Where had that liveliness come from? It wasn’t joy, relief, or even malice — nothing remotely resembling any emotion I could name. Only much later did I realize it might have been absurdity. Or perhaps, I had simply lost the ability to feel at all.

Relearning how to use emotions felt like an arduous task, while resorting to numbness seemed a far more efficient strategy. Surprisingly, I found myself adapting quite well to this numbed state — one that exam-oriented education had meticulously trained me to adopt. Yet, there was no avoiding the need to practice smiling and crying; after all, laughing convincingly or shedding tears effectively required skill. I tried forcing a smile in front of the mirror. It didn’t look great, but I figured it could improve with practice. Forcing tears, on the other hand, was a much harder feat. I remembered how, as a child, Grandpa would make me swallow back my sobs in the midst of a good cry. His insistence had left me with a diaphragm that occasionally rebelled, leading to uncontrollable hiccups. Uncle Xinli had spent significant effort finding a treatment to mitigate the problem, and while it had mostly worked, the experience lingered. “Well, congratulations,” I thought to myself with a touch of irony. “I’ve finally become that stoic warrior who wouldn’t shed a tear even with a broken leg.” The image reminded me of Li Guangtou, the bald-headed protagonist from Brothers. I glanced at the mirror again. My own buzzcut, stark and unyielding, once reminded a Chinese teacher in secondary school of her harrowing memory of being robbed in a lobby. This haircut, Grandpa’s undisputed favorite, now seemed to carry a deeper significance — it felt as though the stubborn old man, a relic of an outdated era, had begun to inhabit my body.

The pandemic gifted me an excuse to avoid returning home during the long post-O-Level break. By the second year, restrictions had eased significantly, and I was free to roam the streets. What Malaysia’s Prime Minister dismissed as a “tiny red dot” suddenly felt vast and boundless to me. I can’t quite recall when I started practicing Wing Chun, only that when my sifu first asked, “Why do you want to learn Wing Chun?” I didn’t have a real answer. I mumbled something about staying fit. He smiled faintly and said nothing more. By chance — or perhaps fate — the Wing Chun school was just one street away from the barbecue joint where Happyzed and I had once reconciled. The barbecue joint, though, was gone, likely a casualty of the pandemic. Happyzed and I had lost touch, too. That street now seemed like a fragment of warped time and space, where memories, though not far, had begun to blur. That year, I reached master rank in League of Legends, placing in the top 0.3% of players and standing at the gates of proper competitive play. Yet, I became painfully aware of a cruel irony: the numbness that shielded me in life faltered when I needed it most — in practicing Wing Chun and in front of the screen. In those moments, it was replaced by searing pain and fiery rage. Outside those fleeting lapses, though, the numbness remained a faithful companion, blanketing my life and gradually breeding a subtle fatigue and disillusionment. I neither smoke nor drink, yet I suddenly understood why Prince A couldn’t part with either. They offered fleeting reprieve from the relentless tedium that clung like an unshakable shadow, allowing even the briefest moments of escape.

Life in junior college proved even more relaxed than secondary school. The burden of ten subjects had dwindled to four, plus a General Paper (GP) course focused on English reading and writing. I didn’t need to dedicate time to Chinese literature — it flowed effortlessly from within me. Physics and math were manageable with minimal effort, leaving only one subject to truly contend with. My brain opted for further mathematics — a course unavailable on campus — requiring me to find an external tutor. There was a faint trace of self-sabotage in the decision, but I let the reins go slack, choosing to let things unfold as they would. My college, St. Andrews, carried a deep Catholic influence. The new dormitory, SA Hall, was conveniently close to the campus, though its internet lagged significantly compared to the previous dorms. Perhaps the devout had no need for reliable internet, their faith serving as an ethereal connection to the divine. Fortunately, Wen, my classmate from middle school, had recommended an internet café near my Wing Chun school. With its excellent hygiene and reasonable pricing, it became my go-to spot for a few rounds of League of Legends before or after practice.

Life passed smoothly enough, save for the issue of my school’s math teacher, who was particularly exacting. I often saw in him echoes of that overbearing old man and, at times, flashes of my father’s temper. Slowly, the images of my father and grandfather began to converge. Memories surfaced: Grandpa forcing my sister and me to practice calligraphy with unrelenting rigor, and the painful grip of my father’s hand guiding mine to write with a pencil. The sting of his anger and curses over fluctuating math grades mirrored Grandpa’s fury in uncanny ways. The external math tutor, however, bore a striking resemblance to Uncle Xinhe. I didn’t mind spending time in his company, but my interest in the dense sea of formulas and derivations remained nonexistent.

Less than a year after Grandpa’s passing, Grandma finally succumbed as well. At her wake, my mother maintained a mask of strength, though I knew it was just that — a façade. I was reminded of her in the factory’s kitchen, eating leftover steamed buns from my sister and me, while the workers whispered behind her back, accusing her of sneaking food. Somehow, Grandpa caught wind of it, and his fury was explosive. “Everyone’s laughing, saying the Li family can’t even feed its daughters-in-law! Why can’t you just eat openly?” he bellowed. My mother, her eyes red, held back her tears. Through the video call, I saw my Aunt Xiang sitting in a similar position to Uncle Xinhe’s on grandpa’s wake, with the same grave expression. A peculiar sense of inevitability settled over me. Numbness, that ever-dutiful guardian, shielded me from feeling any external emotion. Nothing could pierce its armor. I thought of Meursault from The Stranger and wondered — where was my pistol, and where was the ill-fated Arab destined to cross my path? A scene of the trial walked into my head, and I heard the jury playing Bohemian Rhapsody.

Grandma’s death rippled only faintly through the stagnant waters of my boring life, merely shifting more of my time from mathematics to League of Legends. One night, after countless hours, I achieved the rank of Grandmaster, placing in the top 0.06% of players — a mere step away from the pinnacle of non-professional play: Challenger. Yet, it was another insurmountable step. The smallest mistake from a teammate could trigger my complete unraveling, leading to heated exchanges and mutual blame. In high-level competitive matches, this flaw was fatal. I stared at my losing streak, bewildered by the incompetence and hostility of my teammates. I couldn’t understand why I lost, nor could I comprehend why winning felt more painful than losing. Or perhaps, deep down, I understood it all too well but dared not admit it. As an eighteen-year-old embarking on my journey into adulthood, I hadn’t encountered the truck full of apples, but as I glanced through the net café’s glass walls, I saw a destitute Indian laborer laughing like dumb ass. He laughed so wholeheartedly, so unreservedly, that it struck me like a punch. It hit me: I was that driver of the apple truck portrayed by Yu Hua — a clueless idiot going nowhere in my life.

In my second year at junior college, the dorm arrangement shifted from a four-person room to a two-person one. My new roommate, Lin, was from Guiyang, and our routines were polar opposites. He would come back from school in the afternoon and immediately fall asleep, only to begin his long nocturnal sessions at the communal tables outside the kitchen just as I was going to bed. Despite our differences, Lin and I got along well, forming a solid camaraderie with our neighbor Amadeus, united by our shared grievances about the math teacher. Though his name echoed Beethoven’s, Amadeus possessed little musical talent. Instead, his physical prowess shone, making him a force to be reckoned with in frisbee. Lin and I shared similar tastes, which drew us together, especially after the dorm canteen switched to a notoriously bad food supplier. We often escaped to a hawker center nearby, indulging in dry-fried pork intestines from a Mala Xiang Guo stall that became our go-to comfort food. For my birthday, Lin surprised me with a cake. In that fleeting moment, beneath the numbness, I felt a faint sense of joy stirring — a small but palpable sprout of emotion.

The tranquility didn’t last. News leaked through tightly controlled channels that a scholarship student had jumped to their death. I usually dismissed such stories, but when I learned it was “Fuck the Heaven” — a sunny face from my secondary school who once played soccer with boundless enthusiasm — it struck like a bolt of lightning. His laughter, his energy, his football — the endless stream of identical exam papers in front of me seemed more unbearable. I told my mother. She lamented the tragedy for his grieving parents and urged me to communicate with family if I ever felt overwhelmed. Her well-meaning advice felt noisy, though, and I muttered some assurances and ended the call. “Fuck the Heaven” felt like another me that had died. I tried to seek answers in psychoanalysis, philosophy, and even religion but could only see one word: alienation.

As the A-Levels loomed closer, I was forced to confront further mathematics. I tried setting aside my aversion and engaging with it for just a few minutes, only to find my resentment multiplying. Memories of the math teacher’s smirk — three parts mockery, seven parts disdain — surfaced, pushing me to close the book and leave the study room. One day, Huang messaged me, suggesting a post-graduation trip to Europe. The thought stirred excitement; it had been a long time since we’d met due to the pandemic. Though it seemed unlikely, I cautiously brought it up with my mother. To my surprise, she approved, and when I broached the topic with my father, he also unexpectedly agreed. With newfound hope, Huang and I enthusiastically planned the trip — choosing routes, booking youth hostels, and mapping out train and bus commutes across Europe. After finalizing the itinerary, Huang booked our accommodations. But when I approached my father for bank statements to apply for the visa, he turned into someone unrecognizable. The man who had once agreed now lashed out, accusing me of irresponsibility and shifting the conversation to further mathematics. After a heated tirade, he hung up the phone. Confused and distraught, I called my mother for support. To my shock, she claimed she had never truly supported the trip and that I had misunderstood her. “When you join society,” she said coolly, “you’ll find being let down is normal. It’s no big deal.” Her indifference shattered me. “If I can’t trust even my own parents, who can I trust?” I shouted, the words erupting from a place of raw hurt. “That’s a load of crap!” My mother froze, then exploded. “Did you just say your mother’s words are crap? What a fine son I’ve raised!”

What followed is a blur in my memory. Eventually, my father transferred enough money to cover half the trip’s accommodations. I was too ashamed to face Huang and simply returned the funds to him, asking him to find another travel companion. Thankfully, Huang was gracious. Though momentarily taken aback, he accepted the situation without blaming me. I couldn’t help recalling how, as a child, my father would tell me to wait “five minutes” in the car while he ran errands — minutes that often stretched into half an hour or even two hours. I thought of Zengzi’s story of slaughtering the pig to honor a promise to his child, unable to fathom how a father could leave a pig half-slaughtered, yet still deny his child. Then I remembered the Ming Dynasty 1566 scene where the Emperor Jiajing told his son, the future Emperor Wanli, “Promises made by others mean nothing; only the ones you control yourself count.” I stopped attending further math lessons after that, redirecting the tuition money toward food indulgences. With every spicy meal, I felt a searing burn in my stomach at night and a dull ache in the morning as I crouched over the toilet. Yet, this pain reminded me I was alive. Leaning against the bathroom’s toilet paper holder, I pondered Hideaki Anno’s Evangelion. I couldn’t understand how Gendo Ikari could disregard his son’s well-being so completely. I could not understand the concept of the “AT Field,” nor why, in the end, everyone melted into “orange juice”.

Later quiet night, I found myself leaning aimlessly against the dormitory hallway railing. The yellowing light of an old fixture cast a faint glow, while my fingers traced the uneven texture of the painted wall. Suddenly, all sounds around me faded into an abyssal silence. It felt like I had entered a vacuum devoid of any medium. I knew He had arrived. This wasn’t my third time feeling the shadow of death; it was my first time standing face-to-face with it, alone. As the moment engulfed me, fragments of Jiang Wen’s Gone with the Bullets (direct translation is One Step Away) flickered in my mind — the opening scene where Borjigit Gatu Huidadala tumbles through the clouds, speaking in that iconic Jiang-style accent: “To be, or not to be — that is Shakespeare’s question.” Death had stood before Shakespeare millennia ago, before Camus a century past, before Ri Tian last year — and now, finally, before me. I wasn’t a philosopher, so I couldn’t think my way through this encounter. I could only attempt to feel Him. Calmly, I peered down at the study room below, its fluorescent hum unbroken. The ordinary scene contradicted the pull I felt beneath my feet — something from the underground beckoned me while my body defied physics, growing lighter with every moment. I finally realized: like Faust, I had bartered away too much of my soul to Mephistopheles. He now summoned what remained of my half-dead, hollowed-out body. Should I yield to His call? But then, I remembered the League of Legends game earlier today — how I carried my abysmally inept teammates to victory, only to endure their vile, trash-talking mouths. Resolving to let Mephistopheles help me obliterate these scumbags first, I stayed my course. Perhaps Mephistopheles feared I’d wreak havoc on hell’s servers with my insults, causing them to be shut down for moderation. For now, He abandoned His claim on me. I saw the long-lost myself clawing its way out from His grasp, flipping Him the bird. Face contorted with fury, that self charged toward Him, shouting with unbridled rage: “You bastard, FUCK — — YOUR — — MOM — — !”

I’m grateful to the part of myself I had betrayed for over a decade — the one that pulled me back when I couldn’t think clearly. I wasn’t deeply afraid of death — perhaps because I wasn’t truly that close to it — but I knew one thing for sure: I didn’t want to trouble Mrs. Perry. Mrs. Perry, my GP teacher, was Malay, and I have to admit that the Malay people have always been my lucky stars. She was the most genuine person I had ever met, with ambitions of entering the government to reform education. In class, she cared about our lives, shared gentle Bible lessons during morning broadcasts, and sang boldly at celebration assemblies. She didn’t hesitate to accept praise when joyful, expressed her anger and confusion directly when needed, but never lashed out or shifted blame. When my performance faltered, she offered patient guidance, and when I gave her a small Teachers’ Day gift to show my gratitude, she responded with heartfelt appreciation. I’ll never forget my physics practical exam day. Due to space constraints, we had to wait for long hours in a holding classroom before our turn. Lacking the will to study, I tried meditation to stave off boredom. Instead of scolding me for being idle or out of place, she later sent me a photo she had taken and messaged, “You are so zens! I admire you!”

I thought back to Exile or Pursuit, where Teacher Fu asked Fuliang whether the chili or the crab was more important in chili crab — a question that had seemed nonsensical at the time. Now I understood: love resides within the heart; the chili and the crab don’t matter — only Fuliang does. Mrs. Perry was my Teacher Fu, but I lacked Fuliang’s openness. After an exam in which I felt my essay was a disaster, I panicked at the thought of disappointing her. Instead of confronting my unease, I brewed and gave her a bottle of homemade sour plum juice. Actually, she was never obsessed with grades; despite my subpar GP results, she remained sincerely proud of me. She expressed her thanks with warmth and later invited me and some classmates to her home. That sunny afternoon, she made us feel welcome, seating us on her couch to watch TV, frying us chips, and letting us make pizzas together. Her husband, an American, was away for work, and she had an adorable, pampered dog that she kept snug in a little tent. Watching her gently stroke the dog, I caught a flicker of loneliness and regretted not hugging her longer or spending more time with her that day.

After the A-Levels, I spent a month in Singapore practicing swimming, yoga, and Brazilian jiu-jitsu. When my visa was about to expire, I had no choice but to return home. The initial peace with my parents quickly gave way to mutual irritation. Perhaps trying to compensate for the canceled Europe trip, my mother brought me along on a company-sponsored tour organized by one of their contractors. Somewhere during the journey, whether from the bumpy bus ride or simply from being too close to her, I felt that familiar dizziness and nausea. Just one step away from Jiuzhaigou, I succumbed to severe altitude sickness and stayed in the hotel, wrestling with the familiar churning turmoil in my body.

Back home, I resumed tutoring students to fund a computer for League of Legends. Teaching them how to improve their grades was easy enough, but I dedicated more effort to guiding them through basic meditation exercises to help untangle their emotions — whether from home or school. Watching the anxious, obsessive parents and their resigned, defeated children, I realized I had no answers for how to lead them out of their misery. I couldn’t even face the vast sea of bloodshed behind me — the countless versions of myself I’d killed to get here. With the computer finally purchased, I returned to gaming, and the conflicts with my parents escalated further. I no longer wanted to speak to them, nor did I bother replying to their messages or calls. My father had to rely on my uncle Xinli to communicate with me for anything important. One day, after I ignored my mother’s messages for half a day, she burst into my room, unhinged. Seeing my calm, disdainful expression, she stormed off in fury. Aunt Xiang later brought me a bowl of prawn noodles, pleading with me to be more understanding of my mother. I didn’t want to say a simple word. After she left, I continued gaming. That evening, Uncle Xinli came over to mediate. As my father, exasperated, finally snapped, shouting, “If he’s going to live like this, eating and doing nothing, I won’t support him!” something within me broke. I collapsed into the sofa and began to laugh uncontrollably — so hard that I couldn’t breathe, coughing violently as if my insides were trying to expel everything. It was then I truly understood: when the heart dies, there are no tears left — only laughter.

When aunt Xiang learned that the students I tutored had seen their grades soar, she asked me to help her son, my cousin Zhi, who was now in his second year of secondary school. He had once been as mischievous as me, yet now seemed withdrawn and quiet. In his eyes, I saw that all-too-familiar weariness. I didn’t want to teach him school subjects — I wanted to take him to play League of Legends, to tell him, “Hey, little bro! Your big brother is a legend now! There’s hardly anyone left in the city who can take me down!” But I couldn’t refuse my aunt’s request. The words that came out of my mouth instead were, “Alright, I’ll help him pick out an English vocabulary book sometime.” I thought of the scene of Li Guangtou standing before Song Gang’s grave in Brothers.

After the A-level exams, I found myself with a long gap before university started — a period similar to the summer four years prior, before leaving for Singapore. Once again, I was surrounded by an absence of classmates. To fill the void, I traveled to Shanghai, where I rode Honkai Impact 3rd’s finale-themed subway on an endless loop of the circular line, with no start or end. At the Huangpu River, I watched the dazzling lights reflected on its surface, the water beneath remaining inky black and turbulent. I strained to hear the chime of the bells Mr. Joo-Ming Chia once described but found only silence. Thoughts of Wang Anyi’s The Destination and Westward Twice, Then South surfaced — I didn’t know where my terminal lay, nor did I know where I was headed.

I took a train to Changsha for Chen Li’s concert, and during the ride, my thoughts wandered to a childhood trip to Hebi with my mother and sister, invited by uncle Fu. My memories of Hebi weren’t kind; the day of arrival brought me familiar dizziness and nausea, leaving me bedridden. Days later, after enduring relentless coughing and finally expelling feces as hard as iron, I realized I’d once again weathered a peak of suffering. At the time, Grandma’s mind was still somewhat clear, though her self-pitying tendencies had set in. I remembered her blaming uncle Fu for all her troubles, including an incident when she got trapped on his rooftop during a storm, drenched and unable to access the top-floor door. Although years later, Uncle Fu remarked that Uncle XinHe was not wise enough to embrace his retirement from the system job, leading to slight depression, he also noted that during his days in Hebi, he lived like a feudal king. Yet, Uncle Fu said he had eventually found a way to peacefully accept the quiet anonymity of retired life. However, when I think of Uncle Fu standing on his balcony in Hebi, cigarette in hand, his silhouette framed against the fading horizon, I caught a glimpse of profound loneliness — proof that even kings must confront endless solitude.

Upon arriving in Changsha, I first visited my cousin Hao, who is just a day older than me and now training at a military academy. Memories of childhood came rushing back — the nearby gated community with soldiers stationed at the entrance, where we could only peer in longingly. We spent our days there munching on cheap snacks beneath a little arched bridge by the pond, then heading upstairs to play video games once we got bored. I recalled one time when he mischievously led me to the wrong unit in his apartment building, leaving me teary-eyed and panicked. Another memory from our elementary school years in Zhengzhou stood out. My mother had brought him over from Nanyang to visit, letting him play on the computer freely while strictly limiting my time. The injustice of it burned in me, and during a heated argument, I blurted out, “I get better grades than him — why can’t I play?” I vividly remember his trembling lips as he tried to hold back tears, and then the sharp sting of my mother’s slap across my face. The blow sent me crumpling to the floor, my low blood sugar leaving me too weak to stand. I saw my mother freeze in panic, her eyes welling up with tears she couldn’t hold back. I thought of The Kite Runner and my childhood days playing with the son of our factory’s gatekeeper. His mother once asked me to help him, a student older than I, with his English homework, and I can still recall the awkward look on his face. I also remembered the time we played with fire, nearly igniting the rubber-coated wires. My father rushed in with a fire extinguisher, swiftly putting out the spreading flames, only to turn and strike me hard across the face. Clutching my cheek, I blamed my friend; the disbelief and sorrow on his face were unbearably heavy. Guilt consumed me.

After parting ways with my cousin, I made my way to Orange Isle. The throngs of people packed tightly from the subway station to the entrance made it impossible to get in, so I gave up. Instead, I found myself sitting by the lake at Yuelu Academy, pondering Mao’s poem, “A thousand years have passed, yet the memory of Wei Wu wielding his whip endures” I couldn’t fathom why someone who had spent his life removing the whips from above people’s heads would, in such a short time after his passing, see those whips not only return but penetrate into everyone’s hearts. The concert was merely noise and chaos. I found myself longing for the quiet moments on the SA HALL balcony, gazing at the motionless river below, with Chen Li’s “Vivid Thousands of Hometowns” playing softly in my ears.

Facing the offer again, I felt as if I had a choice this time for university course and future career. Yet, it dawned on me that life is never truly just “a step away.” What we call “a step away” is nothing more than turning our backs on our hearts and walking farther and farther until we reach the limits of detachment. Without the support of the heart, it’s impossible to take another step forward. Instead, we sigh, lament our bad luck, and use the distance traveled as a radius to begin drawing a new circle far around our hearts — branding it as resilience and deceptively calling it a fresh start. I thought of Wong Kar-wai’s The Grandmaster, of Ma San, who betrayed his Sifu and country to serve the Japanese, all for the sake of fame. In the fateful scene, his Sifu confronts him, urging him to turn back. Ma San simply replies, “What if I can’t turn back.” His Sifu spares his life at the cost of his own, merely flipping Ma San to the ground and letting him leave. But Ma San was already a hollow shell. All that remained was his waiting — the silent, snow-filled train station night years later, when Gong Er would deliver the decisive blow, her palm strike ending his torment as fate’s train whisked him away to final release. I stared at the Chinese literature program’s offer email. The dean’s words flowed like a gentle stream, urging me to turn back. For a fleeting moment, I wanted to. But then, I thought of Cousin Yang’s pragmatic advice and the subtle yet unmistakable looks from my parents. They spoke of freedom to choose, but their preferences were painfully evident. In that moment, I began to understand Ma San a little.

Before leaving for university, I ignored my mother’s protests, dismantled my computer, carefully packed it into my luggage, and continued to draw circles — drifting as far away from my heart as possible.

Another Spring

I am grateful to my good friend and acupuncture classmate Huayang for the acupuncture support before my departure; though his AE points locating was still a bit clumsy, I felt a budding sense of vitality within me. Leyan had come all the way from Canberra to wait for me at Sydney Airport. He had grown significantly rounder, much to my surprise. He helped me get a SIM card and some essentials, and together we wandered aimlessly around Sydney, circling the city over and over. For lunch, we had a budget-friendly yet generously portioned KFC meal, though the taste was a far cry from China’s well localized KFC. That night, we squeezed onto a single small bed. Despite his now slightly oversized frame, I could still feel a wounded heart faintly trembling beneath it. I knew it was from that heartbreak, though perhaps not entirely just that one. I teased the former melancholic heartthrob, urging him to lose weight, before being pressed into a deep sleep by his bulk.

The League of Legends server in Australia didn’t interconnect with Singapore’s. While I could transfer my account, it meant starting over in ranked play — a process that made me feel like Sisyphus endlessly rolling his boulder. With more than a month left until lectures began and no interest in computer science, I sought out a Wing Chun school to continue training and fill the abundant time. The Sifu at the school was deeply skilled and passionate, but what captivated me most was the woman who would become my wife. Meeting her felt like reuniting with someone I’d known forever. Modern life has taught us to rely on the brain for most decisions, but fortunately, when it comes to love, the heart can still briefly triumph over reason to secure a lifetime of happiness — if you do not ignore its call further. My wife is wonderful in every way. She enjoys the meals I cook, even though my first attempt at twice-cooked pork was overly salty — a mistake that reminded me of my childhood, when the first egg I fried for my parents turned out the same. She patiently organizes my scattered clothes without complaint, tends to my burns with ointment time and again, and gently reminds me to watch my words when I start rambling.

She takes me to the Guan Yu Temple to pray and to Wollongong’s Nan Tien Temple to volunteer. I do not follow Buddhism, but went with her nonetheless. I watched as she bowed before the Buddha, then carefully located the lotus lamp she had dedicated amidst the wall of glowing lights. With her palms together and her head bowed, she offered her prayer. It reminded me of my grandmother in my childhood, tirelessly visiting every mountain temple she had heard about, praying to countless Bodhisattvas and Buddhas for my health, my growth, and my future success — only forgetting to pray for herself. Now, a flower so much like her has appeared again before me, though my wife is 14 years older than me. I have made an irreversible mistake before; I wonder if I will make it again.

After arriving in Australia, my relationship with my parents showed little progress. I expressed my desire to transfer to a not good QS ranked traditional Chinese medicine academy, but they dismissed it as an unstable future. Uncle Xinli echoed their skepticism, calling it a misguided endeavor to study TCM abroad. Caught in this deadlock, I muddled through my studies, passed the time, and wrestled with whether I should continue building a life with my wife. I kept playing League of Legends, still frustrated and perplexed by my teammates’ incompetence and defiance. Yet, without realizing it, my bouts of rage had diminished by more than half. As days passed, I stumbled upon videos by Teacher Linju about healing childhood traumas from one’s family of origin. Although his tone often struck me as overly harsh and unsympathetic, I found truth in his words and began listening regularly. I shared some of these videos with my mother, who reacted as if stung, calling him cruel, overbearing, and destructive to the vulnerable. She criticized his refusal to allow comments, branding him as a cult leader and warning me to steer clear of him. After some time of watching Linju’s videos, I found my resistance to the idea of marriage with my wife softening. Together, we started planning our wedding ceremony. However, one of Linju’s videos I sent to my mother sparked a heated argument. In the midst of the shouting match, I revealed that I intended to marry my wife the following month, she told me to consider her dead and that I no longer had a mother.

A month later, we registered our marriage. My father, upon learning about it, demanded why I hadn’t consulted the family, accusing me of recklessness and questioning if I wasn’t afraid of bringing ruin to our household. During a calmer second call, he urged me to speak with uncle Xinli, who, in turn, said I had acted impulsively and to an extreme. He lamented that I had deeply hurt my father and reflected on whether their upbringing had gone wrong. He remarked that it seemed I hadn’t truly focused on learning or self-improvement these past few years. At first, I feebly attempted to explain, but eventually, I simply let the tears fall. I thought I was deeply distressed, but in truth, my heart was almost still — only faint ripples remained, leaning toward calmness while I hadn’t yet recognized.

I hesitated for a long time, unsure whether to visit Beijing again to study acupuncture before my final exams, but after wavering several times, I finally booked a ticket. In the days leading up to departure, I began writing this piece. The memories brought tears, but they were just that — tears. No more, no less. Before boarding, I stood before the vast glass windows, gazing outward with a blank mind. Thoughts of Mrs. Perry surfaced, and the tears began to flow again — slowly, steadily, drop by drop. There was no joy, no sorrow, just a quiet release. For twenty or thirty minutes, the tears streamed, and I realized my heart’s inner eye had opened. From that moment on, the chatter of the mind ceased. No more thoughts, no turmoil, no doubts, no confusion. There was only a heart as clear as a polished mirror, reflecting the emptiness of all phenomena, dissolving all suffering.

“We are all like mirrors, capable of reflecting the world, yet only able to see the parts we choose,” Baudelaire once said — a sentiment that holds some truth. However, I find the word “choose” a bit harsh for most of us, trapped as we are within the mountains of our circumstances. Allow me to boldly reframe it in my own way: “We are all like mirrors, capable of reflecting the world with clarity, but most of us wear inherited, multicolored ancestral sunglasses.” Everyone is born with the ability to see the world clearly, but, almost unknowingly, we don our inherited ancestral sunglasses and gradually forget how the world truly looks. Games, phones, cigarettes, and alcohol have never been inherently addictive; they are merely mirrors people gaze into, caught in the struggle between confronting themselves and fleeing from themselves. I recall Shi Tiesheng’s reflection in I and the Temple of Earth : “I often believe that the ugly create beauty. I often believe that fools lift up the wise. I often believe that cowards set off heroes. I often believe that the masses enlighten the Buddha.” Actually, there is no creation, no lifting up, no setting off, and no enlightenment. With an awakened heart, you come to understand: trauma is care, joy is pain, sorrow is happiness, love is hate, death is life, the Bodhisattva is the Satan, and the masses are the Buddha — they are originally and inherently the one and the same.

My thoughts drift back to my first mental health class in my middle school in Zhengzhou, where I was introduced to the concept of meditation. The teacher spoke of those who could achieve such mastery that they could perceive destiny and foresee the future — it seemed unbelievable at the time. Now, I can faintly glimpse that what they referred to is the thread under Moirai’s hand, flowing and extinguishing in its course. You simply need to unleash the tiger within your heart and let it lead you through the rose-lined path behind you. It is like a dewdrop nurtured by the earth, entering the opening and ended cycle of the five elements, once again return to the embrace of the land. I hope this can offer some solace to Uncle Xinli, who often laments that “life is a journey forward through an endless, unforeseeable, and uncontrollable night.” For in truth, there is no foresight needed, nor is control necessary. There is no day or night, no darkness or light, no trauma or healing. There is only existence and seeing — existence that isn’t truly existence, and seeing that isn’t truly seeing. It is merely a journey, one that has already ended yet is constantly beginning anew, where we encounter and reunite with countless versions of ourselves along the way.

Epilogue 1

I originally intended to write about how to maintain a good mindset while playing League of Legends and how to deal with the ELO system. These two issues — essentially one — have plagued me for years, and resolving them has been the key to my recent winning streak. But to truly tackle these problems, one must first break free from the shackles of the heart. Unfortunately, I lack the divine powers of the Monkey King to extract my true heart and lay it bare for all to see. Instead, I can only try to sketch the outline of a true heart through fragmented memories.

I owe great thanks to Ruoqi, who gifted me Cries in the drizzle on my birthday. That book taught me how to engage in dialogue with my memories through writing, helping me navigate the vast and intricate treasures within without feeling completely at a loss. She is a girl full of enthusiasm for life — sincere, graceful, and beautiful as jade. During our time at SA HALL, she gave me tremendous support. I hope she achieves all her dreams during her studies in America and finds happiness. I also want to express gratitude to the many dear friends and family not explicitly mentioned here, each of whom has shown me love in various ways. I wish to dedicate to them the peony flower, symbolizing harmony and balance, depicted in the Korean edition (third version) of Cries in the Drizzle. I hope my feeble cries might also carry through the drizzle and offer solace to those struggling, helping them realize their right — described by Yu Hua — to “reinterpret destiny.” In doing so, they may reconnect with their true selves beyond the fragile veil of denial; this also serves as a way to help my past, present, and future selves.

I must admit that the veil is far more resilient than it seems and can only be dissolved slowly, through tears. At this moment, as I traverse the Pacific toward the Oriental Pearl Tower, the melodies of Flowers of Shanghai ring in my ears, inevitably reminding me of the novel Shanghai Fortress by Jiang Nan. I also think of Pai Hsien-yung, suddenly struck by how tears are such a wondrous thing. When you are powerless, they encase you in a cocoon, waiting silently until you are ready to break free. When the time comes, the pearls accumulated through the years emerge one by one, polishing your heart’s eye, allowing you to see the colorful and intricate world once again — much like Pai’s A Touch of Green.

I will soon share my thoughts on League of Legends in a way more directly related to gameplay mechanics, but not now. In an hour, I will arrive at Pudong Airport; four hours later, I will land in Beijing. As the sun rises, I will board the harmony high-speed train to reunite with my grandmother’s embrace. I can’t wait to rush into my parents’ arms and give them a hug. When I see my uncles, perhaps I won’t nag them to quit smoking, but instead, I will listen to their stories through the mist of cigarette smoke — that is the future I must face. I hope aunt Xiang can give my high school cousin Zhi half a day off, so we can run freely together, far away from school. I hope he won’t resist too much.

Epilogue 2

I am not a faithful reader of Buddhist scriptures, though I am familiar with some of their most famous lines. I once couldn’t understand how someone who committed heinous acts could simply lay down their sword and become a Buddha. It seemed almost unjust. But now I finally understand: there are no good people or bad people. The sword always points inward, at yourself. You either endlessly attack yourself or lay it down. Both the version of you wielding the sword and the version laying it down exist simultaneously. Only when you open the eye of your heart can you see them both.

I now see that there are no mistakes that cannot be undone, yet all mistakes are also irreversible. Destiny is nothing more than presenting the same question to countless versions of yourself, over and over again, watching you circle through cycles until you transcend them. Eventually, you realize there are no questions, no troubles, no right or wrong. I see the version of myself who refused to make that fateful phone call to my grandmother, dialing the wrong number instead. That call has somehow traveled across the non-existed time-space continuum to land in front of me. I cannot answer it, and yet I seem to have answered it. I say nothing. He cannot hear me, nor can he understand. I can only look at him through the compassionate eyes of the Bodhisattva on the wall.

I must express my gratitude to Five-Element Acupuncture, which awakened my life, and to Teacher Lin Ju, who helped me see my true self. Reuniting with Beijing in the refreshing autumn air, I was deeply moved once again by the heartfelt voices of Teachers Liu Lihong and Long Mei. Through Teacher Liu’s “metal” eyes, you see responsibility and value, a concern and planning grounded in sorrow; through Teacher Long’s joyful “fire” eyes, you see genuine passion, a warmth and care founded on happiness. I hope more people can either step into Five-Element Acupuncture or directly journey into their own hearts, just as Teacher Long suggests, for an inward journey is also an outward one. I am reminded of a sentiment shared by Feng Ji, the producer of Black Myth: Wukong, during an interview: “The journey to seek enlightenment is more important than reaching Ling Mountain.” In truth, the moment you set foot on this journey, you have already arrived at Ling Mountain.

To my fellow practitioners in Five-Element Acupuncture, I hope my flow of water brings you both passion and a touch of wisdom, for I see Five-Element Acupuncture as both the Dao and the method, and the method and Dao as Five-Element Acupuncture. It is complete and eternal. It neither increases nor decreases, neither arises nor ceases; it simply exists. When the era calls for it, it appears; when it does not, it hides. Thus, it is neither spread nor lost — only passed down like a flame from hand to hand. When I heard that Teacher Nora felt she had fulfilled her mission of bringing Five-Element Acupuncture back to its homeland and would no longer teach in China, I felt nothing but gratitude and blessings for her. I no longer idolize or need her. I resonate deeply with Teacher Liu Lihong’s words: “Human nature is complex.” For in the fleeting instant when the heart is closed, countless thoughts arise and fall, and true understanding between people is impossible. Yet with the heart open, you see that everyone has only one true heart, and all the heart is the same. Everyone is me, and I am everyone. I see myself standing with Nora, with her serene smile, and with Professor J.R. Worsley, whom I have never met. They are me, yet they are not me. Together, we walk this endless path — a path with no beginning, no end, no going, and no arriving; a path both correct and unique. I follow my own heart, and within it lies my own invincible method, waiting to be born. No matter how the external world may seem to swing, I hope everyone can feel their own heart, for it will provide all the answers.

My gaze extends through the window, feeling Beijing, where the heavy smog never obscures the refreshing autumn air; they dance together in harmony.