Written on Lunar New Year's Eve, 2024

When I woke up this morning, dawn had only just broken. I lay in bed scrolling aimlessly through my phone when it suddenly hit me that I was almost thirty. It was not the first time I had thought about it; the thought surfaces at every holiday.

Looking back over the past twenty-eight years, I spent more than a decade in relative ease—years worth remembering—before reality arrived. I used to wonder where I would spend my thirties and what kind of person I would become. Now, none of it looks like the life I had hoped for. My social feed is crowded: some people earn well, some marry and have children, some travel the world. My own life seems to be slowly decaying under a layer of dust.

I try to learn, read, and write this blog to prove that, at least in thought, I am different from those who have willingly bowed to life. Curled up on this small bed, I type little by little with no desk; my back aches and my joints grow stiff. I imagine that, after enough accumulation, I will be able to move somewhere on my own and buy everything I want with my salary. As time passes, I realize that this is impossible—at least in this home.

I used to feel fulfilled, at least spiritually. Gradually, I came to feel that it meant nothing. Like most things I have done, perhaps it is only the one-sided wishfulness of a sentimental man. I spend longer and longer lying down, or choose overtime at the office over being at home. Those are the only two places where I can exercise any control. Beyond them, I can change nothing. No matter how I try to communicate or adapt, I can only follow other people’s demands, so I have become quiet.

My life feels terrible, materially and mentally. Yet I work hard to appear cheerful and happy to everyone online, and that leaves me at a loss. Sadly, I do not have the courage to die, so I can only die slowly amid a head full of complaints.

While scrolling Douyin, I saw a post from someone who, at twenty-eight, asked whether life gets better after thirty and whether one can quickly figure out one’s life.

I normally do not read things like this: everyone has a different face and a different life. But I opened it anyway. The replies were warm:

One thirty-four-year-old wrote: “I still have not completely figured out my life, but I know that the roads I have taken, however winding and difficult, were the right ones.”

Another, forty-two, wrote: “Let me tell you a big secret about adulthood: nobody has life figured out.”

I wrote their comments down bit by bit to encourage myself. But by the time I reached this point, only a sigh remained. This is roughly the path my life has taken; I hope you do not have to repeat it.

February 9, 2024, from a nearly thirty-year-old man full of complaints