So much has happened lately that sometimes, when the pressure piles up high enough, the only way to let it out is by writing. Schoolwork, friendships, all the countless little frustrations of daily life—most of it can only be endured with a bitter smile.
Senior year has been simple, and full. I like this kind of life, where each day has a clear direction, where there is no room to drift too far into confusion or despair. The college entrance exam is not far away now. I keep walking toward it—not especially fast, yet always with the sense that time is short. There are big exams and small ones, problems I bury myself in without fully understanding, and endless figures bent over their own effort. Seen from the outside, it is moving. Maybe that is just a kind of self-sentimentality, but it feels sincere all the same.
The school recently held its sports meet, the last one we seniors will ever have. The week before that was yet another mock exam, and I did badly. I had wanted to take more photos at the meet, to leave some record behind, but one annoyance after another got in the way. I half-pressed the shutter and still could not bring myself to take the shot. I hesitated, and while I hesitated, many moments were lost. I kept wondering what the point of doing it was. Maybe there was no point at all. My camera ended up full of other people, while there were hardly any pictures of myself. That is not a serious matter, but still, it leaves a small regret.
Then I came home, and there it was again: the slow accumulation of pressure and resentment. I try not to let myself sink into the swamp of anxiety, yet I cannot deny that I do have problems of one kind or another—time squeezed to the limit, grades on paper judged over and over, ordinary habits of life criticized from every angle. It is exhausting. But I cannot afford to grow irritable because of it. Once restlessness takes hold, it becomes hard to recover.
At times I think and reflect, and what follows is often a feeling of helplessness and pain. This kind of predicament tends to trail behind a person like a shadow. I know I cannot stay collapsed in the place where I fell. So I force myself to stand again, brush off the dust, wounds on my body, tears in my eyes, utterly tired, afraid of the road ahead, and still I take the next step.
I gather myself, shoulder what I have, and leave without looking back. Deep inside I still carry my truest ideals. There is resolve in my pace, and confidence too. I cannot see what lies at the end of this road, but I believe there is light somewhere ahead.
Why I Feel Nostalgia
So often, without warning, something touches the switch of memory, and the past comes flooding in. By the time it recedes, it leaves behind sorrow, tears, and a kind of loneliness. Maybe the feeling comes from regret, maybe from being moved, or maybe from helplessness before the fact that time never returns.
I have the habit of keeping a diary, and whenever I open old entries, they often feel strangely unreal—especially when they conflict with what I remember now. It is like reading the story of someone who is both familiar and unknown, a "kind stranger." With time, that contradiction gradually fades into the blur of memory itself. And that has made me suddenly aware of how precious truth and sincerity are in writing. Which memories were woven afterward into something more bearable, serving as "kind lies" in the corridor of memory? Which things really happened, but were revised again and again because I did not want to remember them, until they were finally forgotten?
It is entirely possible to persuade oneself so thoroughly that the altered version feels true. But what were the facts, really? And when we miss the past, is that only another form of self-moved emotion?
Perhaps when a person reaches the end of life, there are countless things they want to say, yet no obvious place to begin. Memory is heavy, and memory is also fragile. So for all kinds of reasons, we turn memory into words, images, film, sound—into anything that might make it easier for a future self to remember. I know I want my future self to remember who I am now and be moved by it: moved by time, by growth, by change, or perhaps simply by myself.
My mother says she once took me to Xinjiang, while my father insists I have never been there. I remember going to Mohe, but my mother is certain I never did. I remember an embarrassing scene from my younger brother's fifth birthday, witnessed by everyone, while my parents insist it happened at my own fifth birthday instead. Memory distorts under the weight of time, yet these distorted memories are often beautiful, the kind that make people smile with feeling.
What we miss is not just the good itself, but the goodness of having come this far, and the growth that happened along the way. The darker parts are washed thin by time until what remains are the understandings and awakenings left behind by hardship and bitterness. Those remnants can become a source of strength, pushing a person to recover some old persistence through remembering, to pack up what is left and keep going.
But do those forgotten shadows really vanish into the wind?
I do not think so. Even if they are never consciously revisited, they are already branded into awareness, shaping how we later act, think, and live. Not speaking of them does not mean they never existed. To discover reality within that dreamlike nostalgia, I think, is far more striking for the one who remembers. It can force a person to recognize more deeply what kind of being they really are.
When older generations tell stories from their childhood and youth, they are often completely absorbed in the beauty of them. And of course beautified memories are pleasant to hear. But if you think a little harder, the gaps begin to show. That does not mean they are vain or insincere. It only shows that people tend to believe what they most want to believe, until memory itself is revised.
If one could preserve some truth when looking back, then even though that kind of honesty may sound cold, severe, even cruel, I think it gives more in return. Compared with mere self-sentimentality, memories that retain their sharpness often leave a much deeper mark—hatred, despair, and all the rest. We have to learn to accept such things: not be ruled by them, but not over-beautify them either. What matters is finding a balance in remembering, one that allows us to be moved while still being reminded to accept who we truly are.
That is why I care so much about genuine feeling in writing, and why I believe in the habit of keeping a diary.
So why do I feel nostalgia? Not simply for the sake of moving myself. It is more like speaking with the person I used to be, encouraging each other across time, recognizing what is most real in me—my value, my goals, my ideals—so that I do not forget where I began, and can continue forward with resolve. I carry the past with me and walk ahead more firmly because of it.
On Poetry
Sometimes I wonder whether poetry—especially the kind that in everyday conversation can seem useful only for showing off—is really worth studying at all. By some people's logic, it belongs among the discarded things of history, old forms with the smell of the grave still clinging to them. And in one sense, that argument is easy to understand. In terms of both use and expression, poetry, especially classical poetry, has steadily lost its place. Who still remembers the difference between old-style verse and regulated verse? Who still cares about ancient rhymes and tonal patterns? Apart from the few who make their lives or careers from such things, poetry has largely drifted out of ordinary people's inner lives. Students memorize it for exams, then once they enter society they part ways with it as though escaping a burden.
That much is true. Classical poetry, as one of the representatives of older culture, is easily neglected in an age that worships the new. Once something is marked as old, it is often ignored or looked down on. Those who dislike poetry have endless reasons to attack its uselessness, and endless reasons to mock those who toy with verse as pretentious poseurs. Meanwhile some of the people writing poetry today hide behind the label of modern poetry precisely because they know nothing of tonal balance, rhyme, or poetic structure. Seen this way, classical verse really does seem at risk of a kind of social death.
And if one judges by practicality alone, the difficulty becomes even clearer. Classical poems built around ancient pronunciation can sound awkward to modern readers. Even someone sincerely interested in learning may see systems like Pingshui rhyme and recoil at once. Compared with modern poetry, which fits present-day speech habits far better, it is only natural that old verse gets neglected. There is no need to become indignant about that fact.
But there is another way to look at it.
Even now, when communication is effortless, some people still insist on writing letters because the act itself carries ceremony and care. Even now, when printers are everywhere, some still cannot bear to give up handwriting or using a typewriter for certain important pages. Even now, when the food industry is highly developed, some still prefer to grow and raise things by hand in pursuit of a more textured life. This kind of "retro" impulse is not only a refusal to be entirely swept along by convenience; it is also a form of delight in living.
It is like pausing long enough to reach the end of the stream and sit down to watch the clouds rise. Like taking up a brush and ink from time to time, or occasionally letting an old-fashioned turn of phrase make itself understood. The density of classical poetry—how much can be carried in so few words—is part of its power. It enriches thought, deepens feeling, and reveals a certain pleasure in living. More than anything, it points to an attitude toward life that is itself poetic.
Poetry is not useless, nor should it be treated as a prop for literary vanity. It is an utterance born of feeling, and also a traditional art worthy of being carried on. Within it are sorrow and parting, tenderness and longing, iron horses and drawn blades, youthful spirit and ambition. There are subtle meanings, judgments hidden between the lines, and above all a scholar's spirit carried forward through centuries. That, more than anything, is the soul of poetry.
So when the road seems blocked and wine is absent, one might let poetry stand in its place. And when joy overflows, one might turn to poetry rather than excess. To meet the world with a little poetry still alive in the heart—that is enough.
Snoring
Writing short essays has become a habit. I write when I am bored, excited, low, or energetic. As long as an idea appears—even a tiny one, not enough to make a full paragraph—I want to put it down. Long or short no longer matters much. What matters is to write it.
By now I have written about nearly everyone around me in class. Those I have not written about are mostly just waiting for inspiration. Without noticing it, my words have already spread to about half the class, and some people have even appeared more than once. Thinking about it now gives me a slightly smug little thrill.
But one dish eaten too often becomes dull, and writing is the same. So this time, I wanted a different subject—something light, a side dish of sorts.
The Art of Snoring
Snoring is an art.
Think about it: there are rises and falls in pitch, repeating patterns, little sections with their own rhythm, quarter notes and eighth notes. When like-minded performers happen to meet, they can even produce something resembling a symphony orchestra—clever harmonies, changing movements, one passage giving way to another. A refined snore has an overture, a climax, a smaller climax, and an ending. An experienced listener might even claim to hear the performer's temperament and preferences in the style of the performance. If that is not art, what is?
I have heard many snores in my time, and I flatter myself that I qualify, at least barely, as a respectable critic of this art. Some snores are ordinary: a whole night passes and they vanish like smoke, leaving no trace. Others are so ear-shaking, so unforgettable, that even after ten days, ten months, ten years, they remain vivid.
Snoring is not a solo activity at all, but a contest between one and many, or many and one, requiring both performers and audience. Some impatient listeners explode before the performance has even reached its peak—"What the hell is this, get up!" Others, lacking all appreciation, simply roll over and sleep, unconcerned with anything but their own rest, or else refuse to remain listeners because they want to be performers themselves. Inwardly I laugh at them: these people understand nothing of snoring's mysteries.
I have the good fortune to attend a snoring orchestra every night. Once all is in place, the first half of the night begins.
The lead vocalist is Xiao Hu, a quiet boy in daily life, which just proves that appearances tell you very little about a person's talents. His voice is the most outstanding in the entire ensemble. Like a seasoned musician, he even warms up properly: before bed he sprays his nose with rhinitis medicine with great solemnity, as though preparing for a formal performance.
Then it begins. First a soft little hum, reserved and curling, like a pipa player half-hiding behind the instrument. Then comes the overture, as the rhythm gradually settles in. The Yangtze, starting as a thin current in the Tanggula Mountains, begins to gather force. At this stage you can hear Da Han's breathing too, like icy wind sweeping over snowy peaks, whistling as it guides the river's course through its twists and turns. Xiao Hu's snore and Da Han's breathing complement one another beautifully. Every now and then Xiao Hu suddenly pivots into a flourish, and Da Han turns over at the same time, like a carp leaping from the river before falling back into the water with the crisp thump of bed boards.
This overture does not last long—at most half an hour. Most people lose patience before then, not realizing that the truly great passages are still to come.
First Movement
Now Xiao Hu's depth of skill reveals itself. The Yangtze has become a surging torrent. Water rushes, the snoring charges forward, unstoppable. One could almost say: bottles shatter and water bursts forth; armored horses charge with clashing blades. A Tong joins in from all directions like converging tributaries. Da Han, unwilling to be outdone, turns over several times in a row, his breathing transformed into a gale; there are even moments that sound like hail striking between the gusts. The sound swells until resonance forms.
Xiao Hu's snore, A Tong's snore, and Da Han's breathing combine into a magnificent first movement. Then comes the climax: Xiao Hu overwhelms everyone, so overpowering that not even the howling of cats outside can drown him out. One can imagine the total abandon of it, the revelry, the sheer force. In the graceful night, the single remaining listener is pulled between passion and sorrow, but one thing never changes—the incontestable volume.
I am almost moved to tears. Who could hear such heartfelt singing and still fall peacefully asleep?
At last the storm subsides, the tributaries begin to dry up, yet the mighty Yangtze presses on alone. By this point it is perhaps around 1:30 in the morning. Few ever reach this territory. I feel like some fearless explorer entering an unknown world: the great voyages, great discoveries, the Amazon rainforest, the Sahara Desert—or perhaps the interior of a pyramid, the regalia of a pharaoh, or the buried wonder beneath Qin's tomb. This is an expedition that belongs only to me, an honor reserved only for me.
Second Movement
Then the river reaches the plains. Everything becomes broad and level. Da Han's breathing settles into a breeze. A Tong, having exhausted himself by pouring all his strength into Xiao Hu, withdraws from the stage, achievement complete, leaving behind only dust.
And Xiao Hu? He seems unwilling to grow quiet. Even in the lower reaches of the river he refuses calm. What is he accusing? The black peonies of the factories? The rainbow-colored water of the paper mills? The restless city? The world of fame and profit?
His snore rises and falls like a fist hammering at the fragile glass heart of the listener. Yes—everyone else has gone numb in the night, but Xiao Hu is the clearest-minded of all. Wood knocking, piling, repair work, horns—this second movement is a solo, performed for the final listener alone.
The multitude of life is chaotic and feverish. I can no longer sleep, not in the slightest. The Yangtze begins high in the pure emptiness of the Tanggula, noble and clean, but in the end it flows into a muddied sea after meeting foul currents along the way. I begin to envy the Irtysh River instead, whose whole course seems cold and clear. So much beauty, after all, cannot escape contamination. Youth and beauty cannot escape the knife of time. Pure imagination cannot escape interference from the world.
This, perhaps, is the essence of the second movement. This is what Xiao Hu's solo is truly about.
It is the unbearable cruelty of reality. Mercilessly, he tears away the disguise draped over the night and exposes all its bareness and filth. The bubbling quality of his snore grows thick and sticky, one bubble clinging to another, blub-blub-blub, like a bloom of scum-covered water constantly sending up new bubbles.
The rest of the orchestra falls silent. Are they asleep? Or dead? Perhaps truly dead.
A tremendous loneliness surges toward the only remaining listener. How can anyone withstand such a thing? Earplugs—of course, earplugs! I must put in earplugs! Loneliness is too inhumanly terrifying to bear.
I fumble wildly in the dark, nearly throwing my clothes off the bed. And when I finally seize the earplugs, I feel something like hope returning to life itself.
At last—yes—there is a third movement, the movement of dreams, a fantasia after reality. I drift into it and join the performance too, though admittedly not in a very pleasing way.
But I know this much:
nights like these will never really disappear.